


Possessive Tendencies

by Minirose96



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drug Use, F/M, Forced Drug Use, I'll let you decide, Kidnapping, Light Mutilation/Torture, Mentions of past forced drug use, Mutual masturbation /might/ fall into Dub-con territory, Nightmares/Night Terrors, Omegaverse, PTSD, Past Attempted Rape/Non-Con, Self-Harm, Self-biting, Withdrawal of Drug use, a/b/o dynamics, mentions of past non-con, mutual masterbation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-20
Updated: 2014-11-24
Packaged: 2018-01-02 04:00:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 13
Words: 23,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1052272
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Minirose96/pseuds/Minirose96
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When the site of an illegal ring of omega sex traders is raided, several Omegas are freed. But one of them is not like the rest. Molly Hooper, found chained and beaten, has a fighting spark that all other others were without. Sherlock notices, and he wants to know why she is different from the others. The only problem is, this operation is larger than anyone imagined. The leader of the ring saw the spark as well, and he is just as interested. He wants her back, and will go to any and all lengths to have her. Who is more possessive?</p><p>.:*Pay Attention to the tags*:.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Captive Start

Molly couldn't say how long she had been imprisoned. It could have been a few weeks, or months, or even years. She just didn't know.

She knew that it hadn't always been like this. She knew that before, she had been doing actual work in an actual job, helping people. She knew she had been free, and the comfort of the memories of those times, as small as it was, was the only thing that kept her sane some days.

Now, she couldn't even remember where she had worked. She had the vaguest memory of the scent of rubbing alcohol and rubber gloves, and of that distinct smell that only sterile places held. Perhaps a hospital, then. She wanted so badly to remember more, but somewhere during her detainment, she had blocked out several memories of her time before it. A coping mechanism, she accepted in the same way she accepted everything now: with indifference.

Not that any of that mattered now. That life might as well have been a hundred years ago compared to her life now, the only life she had known for what felt like an eternity. An eternity of pain, and desperation, and the unending cycle of the two repeating over and over, until she felt certain she would go insane.

Now, she was reduced to the lowly status of a literal bitch in heat for her captors and their clients. She wasn't even allowed proper clothes, just a giant shirt to cover her when she wasn't  _in use._ The term sickened her, even after months of hearing it. Perhaps  _because_ she had been hearing it for so long.

The fact was, Molly was an omega, a person who, every two months turned into little more than a writhing mass of sexual want and desire. In the real world, her classification didn't matter. She was an equal citizen, able to work in whatever career she chose.

In the real world, before all this, she had been on suppressants, a prescription drug that halted her heats and allowed her to live normally. She had dreams, of finding the alpha right for her, the dominant and protective nature to her submissive and loving nurture. That dream was long forgotten now.

Now, she was trapped in a small, dark room. The only furniture was a bed, for use when she was. . . being used by a client. The only light source came from a small crack in the door at the top of the stairs that led down into the room. It was her only way of knowing whether it was day or night. No windows, trapped underground, this was physical and physiological torture.

Because of her captors, and the drug they injected her with on a weekly basis, she was forced to endure torturous pseudo-heats twice as often as her body normally would have been able to handle. In truth, her body  _couldn't_ handle the drug and it's effects, especially after years on the suppressants, but no one seemed to care. Her cried were ignored, until they faded, and she was forced to adapt.

As if the forced heats weren't enough, she was made to share them with clients - alphas who paid to knot her through the heats. At first, she had struggled, and screamed against the unwanted intrusion, but they were always bigger, stronger, and she never had a chance. Every time though, she fought until she was tired, and simply couldn't fight anymore. The alphas used an abused her, fulfilling whatever sick fantasies took their fancy, and no one ever stopped them. Everything was fair game.

Except one rule, the only limit she ever heard, faint words muttered between client and captor. Do Not Bond. How she wished sometimes that rule would be broken, because then she'd be free, no matter what kind of freedom it was. She'd be satisfied with death at this point. Still, no one ever tried, not once, so her captivity continued.

Later, when somehow or another they got wind of her secret want, they beat her for it, beat her and screamed the rule at her as they did so, until she was screaming the words back, and apologizing for ever having had such despicable thoughts.

When they left her, awake but barely so, beaten and bruised and 'useless for at least a couple weeks," as they spat at her before leaving the room, she could still hear the mantra in her mind.

Do Not Bond.

Do Not Allow Anyone To Bond With You.

You Will Never Bond.

This was her life now.

Molly Hooper, captured omega in an illegal ring of omega sex trafficking and forced prostitution.

And there was no way out.


	2. Unchained

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to my lovely beta Cumberburch for all her help <3

It seemed like just another ordinary day in the vicious cycle Molly's life had become since her abduction. Already, her single meal of the day had been brought - they had to keep her strength up after all - and she knew it wouldn't be long until they came in to give her the shot that would eventually trigger her heat. At first, she had tried to resist, tried to fight against the injection and pain, tried to run, but all that earned her was a chain leash around her neck, attached to the wall, and any further attempts at fighting only led to more pain. It all seemed so pointless, when fighting only brought hurt, so eventually, she stopped resisting. The shot, at least.

She felt pathetic. she had begun to crave the door opening because that was one of the only times she ever saw another person, regardless of the circumstances. It didn't matter that they only gave her frosty glares, hurtful words, and insulting sneers as they gripped her arm and forced the needle into her already scarred flesh, littered with marks from several past injections. She just needed to see another living person.

The knowledge that she relied on these horrible people for her very sanity sickened her, but still she waited for the creaking steps that would signify the time for that short glimpse of another person, as cruel as that person may be.

It never came.

Instead, the silence was broken by shouting above her, and stomping feet as the men scrambled for whatever positions they were going for. Gunshots followed soon after.

Molly didn't know how to react but with unvoiced terror. Even screaming seemed like a horrible idea. Who knew what was going on, or what would happen if they found her. She shifted into a corner of the room, the darkest place she could reach with the chain, and sat down, hugging her knees to her chest as the chaos above continued.

Silence, cruel and slightly alarming in it's own right, came just as suddenly as the noise. Molly didn't move from her huddled position in the corner, simply waiting, and listening.

Footsteps, some shuffling, others quick and assured, began to pace and walk around upstairs, but they were all new patterns. She didn't recognize the familiar stomping of the men who usually walked around above her. She heard doors opening all around, and the whines of other omegas joined the footsteps. Some, from the scent, were in heat, but all of them, regardless of that, were led away as they were uncovered.

Molly began to wonder if they were being moved to a new facility. She didn't like that idea any more than she had liked the gunshots. Still, it was almost reassuring to hear the other omegas who were held with her. She had known they were there, but she'd never been allowed to interact with them, and the only evidence of their existence had been the faint scents lingering on her captors.

Voices rose and fell, footsteps faded and returned, but still none were familiar. She didn't like the unfamiliar anymore, and everything happening now was definitely unfamiliar territory.

Still, her dislike of the situation didn't stop three different sets of footsteps from congregating at her door, and for them to eventually open it and begin the descent into the room.

The voices were loud and clear now as they approached, and she could hear them. . . arguing?

"Sherlock, you can't be serious. Lestrade, tell him we've got all the omegas present and accounted for in the building." The first voice came, a bit snappish, but it didn't hold the power of an alpha. Since she could scent them, she knew that there was a single beta and two alphas coming down. That, she decided, was the beta.

"I've got to agree, Sherlock. We've already found all eighteen omegas we were looking for here, and no one else can pick up the scent you're following." The second voice, Lestrade, she put the name from the first man with the voice. She could hear a bit of the control, definitely an alpha.

"You're both wrong. This scent is being masked by the prior omega, obviously. The omega is down here, I'm certain of it."

A shiver ran down Molly's spine. Even if her nose hadn't already told her that the third man had to be an alpha, there was no mistaking that deep, self-assured tone as anything other than pure dominance and control. He was almost certainly leading the proverbial pack.

Molly swallowed quietly when they came into view. The first alpha, Sherlock she guessed, stepped off of the last step and began to scan the small room quickly and precisely as the other two joined him in the room.

She felt extremely exposed in her pitiful hiding place, and she wished she could just sink into the wall, just get away as his steely gaze got closer.

"Sherlock," the beta began - she didn't think his name had been spoken yet - "There's no one here. Maybe she was moved somewhere else, and it's just her lingering scent you've got."

"Shut up John!" Sherlock snapped over his shoulder, his eyes narrowing. "If you would just listen instead of telling me I'm wrong, even your undeveloped hearing would be able to pick up her whines."

Molly hadn't even been aware of the soft whine coming from the back of her throat until he pointed it out. She stopped quickly, placing her hand over her mouth as well, but the room had already gone silent and three sets of eyes were now staring directly at her darkened corner.

It was Sherlock, of course, who locked onto her first, a smug smile on his face.

Lestrade focused in on her shortly after, and his face softened as he spoke. "Come on out, we want to help." His voice was calm and kind, but she didn't trust soft voices and sweet words anymore, so she just shook her head vigorously.

Her gaze flicked from one man to the other, her mind screaming at her to run while the door was open. The heavy weight of the chain leash around her neck was more prominent than ever in her mind, telling her why exactly that idea would never work, even if she could somehow get past them.

"Are you hurt?" The beta - John - asked. His was the only voice completely neutral except for the concern in it. His was without the dominant pull. Again, she shook her head, though much more slowly this time, begging with her eyes for them to just leave her alone.

"Then get up, and come here." A clear command from the most dominant man in the room, possibly the most dominant man she had seen in a long time, sent a shiver down her spine. Her mind told her one single word.

_Obey._

"Sherlock!"

Even as John scolded the unrepentant alpha for his command, Molly rose to her feet. With her gaze locked on the ground in front of her, she slowly walked until she stood directly in front of him. The chain clinked loudly as it dragged on the ground, trailing after her before settling as she stood still.

"Good. I'm going to unchain you now. You're not to run, understood?" Sherlock said in the same tone he had used earlier, another clear order.

She nodded without a word, and he pulled a key from his pocket as he turned the collar around on her neck to get at the latch.

Vaguely, she heard the other alpha ask when he got the key, since it had been in his pocket, but since Sherlock ignored him, she did too.

The links of the chain rattled and clinked as the collar slipped from her neck, and fell to the ground with a clatter that resonated around the room.

"Tell me your name." Again, that same controlling tone.

"Molly Hooper." Came her instant reply. "Who are you?" As soon as the question passed her lips, she flinched away, expecting to be hit for it.

The blow never came. Instead, a gentle hand was laid on her shoulder. The beta.

"You're not going to be hurt, Molly. We're here to help. The bossy prick is Sherlock Holmes. The other alpha is Greg Lestrade, he's a Deputy Inspector, one of the good guys. I'm John Watson. Now that you know us, how about we get you out of here?"

"I. . . They'll be angry, if I go." She muttered, swallowing heavily.

Sherlock sighed loudly. "John, coddling her is getting nowhere. Molly, there is no need to cower. Frankly, it's annoying and distracting, considering you smell like absolute terror. If you didn't already know, this is a  _raid_ , as in, safety, with nice policemen and everything." The sarcasm rolled off his tongue. "Now, enough of this useless chatter. Upstairs, now."

Molly ducked her head and nodded. "Yes sir." She said meekly, ducking away from John's hand and heading straight for the staircase.

There was a resonating SMACK behind her, and a growled "What the hell Sherlock?! You can't just boss her around with your damn dominating alpha tone, she's just - "

"I know what she's been through John, but that doesn't make her an invalid. She's the only one who wasn't in heat or practically leaping at us as soon as the door was opened. She is the only we found collared. That means something, and I'm trying to figure out what, so shut up." Sherlock snapped.

Molly heard all this, but she didn't dare turn around, afraid that any moment a fight would break out. After all, that's what happened when any of the beta underlings disobeyed the alphas in command with her captors.

She waited at the top of the stairs, just out of the way of the door, eyes glued to the floor. She felt ashamed as she thought about what the alpha had said. They  _knew_ what had been done to her,  _knew_ she was ruined. No one would want her now. She'd be alone.

No bond.

No mate.

The thoughts actually made her want to cry, but at least she was free.

At least she was free.

So she vowed, no matter what else life threw at her, she'd be happy for that fact.


	3. Questions

Shortly after Molly was sent up by Sherlock, Lestrade followed, leaving the other two below to examine the room she had been held in.

He moved to stand in front of her and cleared his throat, an unsure, slightly awkward sound coming from an alpha.

Molly, whose gaze had stayed locked on the floor throughout, finally allowed her eyes to creep upwards until her stare rested on his jaw. It was high enough that she could read his face, and low enough that it couldn't be mistaken as insubordination or claiming equal ground.

She felt eyes on her from other unfamiliar faces around the room. The scent of the unfamiliar was everywhere. Strange alphas, unknown betas and the stink of other filthy omegas in forced heat surrounded her. The air smelled almost sour with it.

With an over-sized shirt as her only cover, she felt exposed in the sudden light coming through the windows and doors around her. The soft glow of early dusk pored through the windows, and even that was so bright she had to narrow her eyes slightly to stop any over-stimulation to her pupils.

She felt like a live wire waiting to short-circuit. Thankfully, no one new approached her. She wasn't sure how much more 'new' she could take.

Lestrade cleared his throat again to capture her attention. She flinched slightly, expecting a reprimand for having allowed her attention to move away from the alpha in front of her.

Instead, a calm voice, though still full of the underlying hint of dominance all alphas possessed, spoke to her. "Miss Hooper, I know this is a shock, but I need to ask you a few questions. Quite frankly, you're the only one we've found in any shape to answer them, and it would go a long way to ensuring things like this at least didn't happen as often. "

Molly could hear the honesty in his voice. He hadn't even tried to say they could put a stop to this entirely. And he had the decency to look abashed for the fact.

It was that honesty that had her nodding slowly. She nipped at her bottom lip, worrying it with her teeth as she took a deep breath to steel herself against whatever the questions might be.

"What do you want to know?" She asked, swallowing slightly. Her voice cracked. She hated how soft she sounded, how weak. Still, she kept her eyes on his jaw, unable to raise them higher.

"Do you have any idea how long you've been here?" Came the first question.

There was a long pause as she tried to figure that out. It was hard to tell time when there was no real signs other than a sliver of light through a crack under the door. How many heats had she gone through? Twenty-three, but they came a lot more often than her normal cycle, because of the drugs she'd been given. It was impossible to tell how much more often. In the end, she shook her head. "I don't know. . . a while, I suppose." she replied.

"It's been approximately eighteen months, judging from the strength of the scent in the room and your own physical condition."

Molly nearly jumped out of her skin when that deep baritone voice spoke just behind her, and she couldn't stop the little squeal of shock and surprise as she whipped around to face him. Stuck between two alphas, she fidgeted nervously, not sure who to face, the one technically speaking to her, or this man, this dominant man whose voice seemed to pull attention to him.

She met his cocky gaze with a glare for just a moment before flinching away, having realized her mistake. Don't meet an alpha's eyes. Bad. She immediately looked to the ground, waiting for the reprimand that never came.

At least, not directed at her.

"Bloody hell Sherlock, quit scaring the poor girl!" Lestrade scolded over her head. The tension between the two was suddenly palpable, and she felt, quite literally, stuck in the middle.

It was John who saved the day in the end, stepping out from behind Sherlock and scowling at both of them in turn. "Boys, having a dominance battle now doesn't make either of you look big. Sherlock, you do need to stop startling the girl, especially when you're doing it on purpose. Lestrade, you snapping at him with her caught between you two isn't going to calm her down either." He muttered something about 'bloody alphas' under his breath, but it was completely ignored in favor of the words spoken out loud next.

"Molly would like to speak for herself, actually."

The instant the words passed her lips, the bickering and all other sound in the small group ceased, and once again three sets of eyes were locked onto her. It was not a good feeling. She did manage to feel the smallest gleam of smug pride at still having the ability to stand up for herself, and elicit varying levels of shock and surprise from the men around her.

"So, umm. . ." she stammered. The problem for her was that now that she had their attention, she didn't have the slightest clue what to do with it. She had just wanted them to stop fighting over her reactions as if she wasn't there.

She cleared her throat nervously and turned back to Lestrade, since she had been speaking to him first. Her gaze settled just below his eyes this time as she spoke. "Eighteen months sounds as close as I could get. . . What other questions did you want to ask me?"

She could feel Sherlock's eyes boring into the back of her head, but she refused to squirm under his gaze or look back at him. Strangely, she felt some sort of smugness of his own in the gaze. She didn't know why, and Lestrade's next words knocked her out of that train of thought before she could give herself the chance to over-examine it.

"Right. I know this is difficult, but what can you tell me about the day you were abducted?"

Molly cast her eyes down again, but there was a notable difference between this instance and the last. Before, lowering her eyes had been a nervous motion to avoid eye contact. Now, it was simply to think.

She pushed a clump of her hair from her face as she thought, and scowled slightly. It was greasy, knotty, unbrushed, and generally uncared for. Appearances hadn't exactly been a priority to her captors. Every two weeks at best, she'd been allowed to wash up, simply to prevent illness.

Right, stay focused, Molly. She thought, reminding herself of the question.

"I was walking home from. . . somewhere. Work, I think. A man came up behind me and covered my face with a cloth. I was already in my building complex, so I wasn't paying attention to my surroundings. . . I thought I was safe. I blacked out, and woke up in. . ." she swallowed slightly before continuing, "down there." She gesture towards the room, a shudder going down her spine.

"Do you know what chemical was on the cloth?" The question came from behind her, from Sherlock. That same pull was there. Another small shiver ran down her spine. She tried to mask it, but knew she'd failed.

Now, her mind was working on that question. Before he had asked, she hadn't been thinking too heavily on the chemical, only on the affects, but as she thought about it, the answer became equally clear to her in her mind.

"It was a hospital grade anesthesia in liquid form, though it's usually in a vaporous form when used. It would have lasted at least six hours." The information was just there, and she felt a bit of happiness for being able to answer the question, even if she didn't recall how she knew that.

"Are you sure?"

"Yes." She did. She didn't know why, but she knew it. Again, the sensory memory of a sterile environment filled her mind. A hospital smell. Had she worked at one? As what? She hated not being able to remember.

She was pulled from her thoughts by that voice again, speaking over her at the other alpha. "Lestrade, that limits who could be in charge of this facility. It certainly wasn't any of the men caught here. They were just disposable underlings."

Lestrade nodded towards him, acknowledging his words before he looked back down at her.

"Well, for now that's all, but you'll have to come down to the station to make an official statement, as well as answer a few more questions. Counseling will be available to you should you want it."

Molly nodded, though the instant he suggested counseling she shied away from it internally. She never wanted to speak to anyone about what had happened to her. Ever. "Am I fr. . . able to go then?" She asked in a small voice. She had stumbled around the word 'free.' Saying it just didn't feel right.

Lestrade, bless him, ignored the stumble. "Yes, but it goes without saying that you should stay close for a while, at least until we're ready to take your statement. With all the paperwork, it may be a few days. Do you have any family you can go to?"

She looked down and shook her head. "I don't remember much about before. . . .I guess I kind of blocked out all of the good things so I wouldn't miss them. Anyway, "she said, raising her gaze to just below his eyes, "I'll figure something out."

"No need. I already have the perfect place in mind."

"What!?" Three voices said the word in unison as they turned towards the smirking consulting detective.


	4. Decisions Made

Everyone was speechless. The implication of his words was clear. There was no need for Molly to find accommodations of her own because he had someplace in mind already.

Molly was wide-eyed and wary. Even trapped as she had been, she knew that there was almost no way anyone could make such a guarantee on the spot like that. A shiver ran down her spine.

John recognized the look in his eyes, the look that said something - usually a case - had snagged Sherlock's interest and he wasn't going to let the opportunity go.

"Sherlock, a word, now." He said forcefully, grabbing the alpha's arm and tugging him several steps away before he continued, glaring up at the taller man's raised eyebrow. "What the hell are you thinking? That - That bloody offer - is insane."

Sherlock continued to smirk as he replied. "I haven't the slightest clue what you mean. It's a perfectly logical choice."

John shook his head. "No, it's not. You can't treat her like a piece of evidence to be locked away in your flat until you're done with her. She's a real person, who has just had a horrible experience, and you can't do that to her. How is moving a traumatized, unbonded, omega into your flat even slightly a logical choice?" he demanded the last question.

He rolled his eyes. "I am obviously not treating her like evidence, John. And it  _is_ a logical choice. Look at the facts, though since you have once again failed to observe, it seems I must explain them."

John grit his teeth together at the insult, but seeing that it  _was_ Sherlock, he just nodded and crossed his arms in front of his chest, waiting for his supposedly logical explanation.

"She's involved in the case, so it would be advantageous to have her close should she recall important information. As you seem so worried about her 'traumatized state' I would also like to remind you that I have dealt with several of the stages of it myself, since you yourself were once the victim of night-terrors and post traumatic stress disorder. I am not so cruel and heartless that I would leave her to suffer alone, just as I didn't let you."

"Also, she has been drugged over a long period of time - the chances of her going into withdrawal are high, and I've also had experience with that, and therefore can recognize the signs and severity more than some common place imbecile. Since you moved out of 221B with Ms. Morstan, there is now an extra room for her to use, so it's not as if I'm requiring her to sleep on the floor or some nonsense. Lestrade also knows my contact information, so it will be easier to find her should she be in a familiar area."

"More than all of that though, this place has all the markings of a small piece of a much larger operation. She's unique, based on the conditions she was kept in. No other omega had a chain around his or her neck, just one of the oddities about her condition. They may choose to recollect her if the chance to do so is presented, which it certainly would be if she was left to her own devices."

Finally, he shut up long enough for John to get a word in. The only thing was that there was  _nothing_ in his explanation that could be argued against. He knew it, and Sherlock knew he knew it, the cocky prick.

"She's still an unbonded omega, and you're an unbonded alpha. That's not the best of situations, Sherlock."

He rolled his eyes. "Really John? I've dealt with omegas before during cases. You've been witness to it today as well, even those who practically sprang at me in heat. I am more than capable of ignoring her presentation. I don't do omegas, or mates. You know I'm right, quit drawing at straws."

"It's still her choice." John said, his jaw stiffening stubbornly. "You can't force her if she doesn't want to."

Sherlock smirked. "I think you'll find she's already made up her mind."

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

When John pulled Sherlock away for their talk - Which to Molly looked more like the alpha was about to get a reaming from the beta - it left her with Lestrade. Awkward didn't begin to cover how she felt with the intense silence that followed. Again, it felt like everyone was watching them.

She didn't know what to think about the offer. It was all happening so fast. Not an hour ago, she'd still been trapped, waiting for the next injection, the next pain. She gripped her elbow self-consciously, feeling the grooves of the injection sights under her finger tips. It only served to remind her how broken she was.

She looked up at Lestrade, who met her gaze with an almost apologetic shrug. This time, she was able to hold his gaze for a few moments before she had to look slightly lower. At least it was something, she decided.

She cleared her throat slightly. "What should I do?" She asked softly, her gaze flicking to the other two for a moment before she returned it to him.

Lestrade seemed to actually contemplate her question before he replied. "He's an ass." There wasn't a hint of remorse for the words. "He's an arrogant, bossy prick. He drives me up the wall with his antics. We butt heads as often as we work together, and he has a blatant disregard for personal space." Finally, he took a breath, and the harshness his gaze had taken on while he'd been listing Sherlock's traits faded. His lips twisted into the barest hint of an amused smile. "But despite that, he's a great man. Off the record, he's the best chance any of us have got to shut this kind of place down permanently. He's offering you help in his own way. I'm not going to tell you what to do, seeing as you've spent the better part of two years being bossed around. Chances are, you already know what to do anyway."

Molly nodded hesitantly as she took in everything the alpha had said. From the short period she'd already communicated with Sherlock, it was easy to see that Lestrade hadn't over exaggerated in the slightest. he was crass, tactless, bossy, and had a dominating presence that was unique and nearly impossible to ignore.

But Sherlock was a chance for her to help herself. His dominating personality made her want to fight, and keep fighting until there was nothing left to fight for. And there was  _always_ something to fight for.

She felt without looking when Sherlock and John returned, pausing just behind her. This time, she didn't jump as he spoke.

"John has informed me that I have to ask if you'll be accepting my offer rather than simply assuming you will because I told you to." He stated. Though he'd claimed to be asking, it obviously wasn't any sort of question.

John let out an exasperated sigh.

Molly felt a bit sorry for the beta, but it didn't change her answer.

She turned to face him, and nodded. "Yes." Her eyes lingered just below his as she spoke. She couldn't quite bring herself to meet is eyes, even for an instant. She could meet John's, and Lestrade's, but him. . . she just couldn't. She could not look into his eyes and allow herself to be overwhelmed by the overflowing dominance within. In any case, she didn't have to look into them to see the cocky smirk he wore at being right.

It gave her something to begin to fight for, and as she stood there, bare in almost every sense of the word, she felt the stirrings of something inside her that had been forced to lay dormant.

And she loved it.


	5. Simple Gestures

The spark in Molly's eyes as she gave her answer surprised Sherlock, but he kept his face carefully blank aside from the smug smirk that had been there previously.

"Excellent," he said before looking back up at Lestrade. "There's nothing else for me here, so I'm going." Then, without waiting for a response from the disgruntled alpha, he turned to John. "Are you coming?"

John gave him an annoyed look but nodded. "Yes. Let's just go."

The grin was still very much in place when Sherlock nodded a final affirmative. Without really waiting for either John or Molly, he strode out of the door, leaving them to follow. In John's case, it was an eyerolling gait. In Molly's, it was a nervous shuffle of her trying to keep up and also trying to keep the shirt covering her down far enough to stay somewhat modest.

She was surprised when, as she walked out the door, a warm weight was draped over her shoulders. It had her flinching away, until she realized it was a coat, thick and so long it almost reached the floor on her. She blushed and pulled the lapels shut around her. It definitely did wonders for covering her up, making her feel enclosed.

And Sherlock's scent was  _everywhere,_ an all encompassing presence. She looked up only to see him striding away, hands shoved into his dress pants. He seemed relaxed, but the strange look John was giving him showed her that it was an odd behavior for the alpha.

And then she felt other eyes on her. She looked around. So many eyes, several alphas, a few betas. No other omegas. It was disconcerting. She didn't like being the center of attention.

She froze on the doorstep, wide eyed, and with no clue what to do or how to proceed.

"Are you coming or not?"

She looked up at that voice, no attempt to hide the dominant pull. He was standing in front of a cab with the door open and waiting. He looked for all the world to be an impatient, possibly aggravated, alpha. A shiver ran down her spine. She nodded, finally able to ground herself, and stepped down from the step.

"Sherlock!" Came a reprimand from the beta - it was so odd, hearing a beta yell at an alpha with that tone. Sherlock just ignored it, aside from a cocked brow.

She didn't care, really. She knew an. . . undamaged omega would be able to at least resist his tone. She could too, or she would be able to soon. She smiled softly as, without another word, she got into the cab and slid to the far side.

He got in after her. John got into the front passenger seat a few moments later. He looked into the back and gave Sherlock a disgruntled look as he pulled the door shut.

Again, Sherlock just ignored it.

The cabbie, however, did not. He was a beta, but his nose wrinkled up in distaste, as though he caught the scent of something odious. "Look boys, I dunno what kinda scam yur runnin' here, but I ain't drivin' around some common whore, get 'er outa my cab."

Everyone froze, if for just an instant.

Sherlock growled low in his throat as he pinned the cabbie with his eyes. "There are police everywhere, and you have the audacity to think I'd be stupid enough to bring a woman of that profession past them all  _from_ the building without their consent? She is not a whore, she is a victim of circumstance. I suggest you drive. Now."

A shiver ran down her spine. If she had thought his tone towards her was domination, it held nothing to the unconstrained anger in the order he spat at the cabbie.

The cabbie snorted, but put the car in drive. "Address?"

Everything else faded, and Molly sank against the seat. Self-consciously, she sniffed at her shirt. She almost retched. It was no wonder that even a beta could smell it, the vile odor of sex and heat and of the alphas who had used her and left traces of themselves that had sunk into the shirt.

Whore might be too soft of a term for her now.

She didn't even realize when the cab came to a stop in front of an unobtrusive little bakery, until she felt a hand on her shoulder.

She looked up with wide eyes as she was pulled from her thoughts. Oh. Just John. . . She smiled softly as she got out. He held the door for her both on the cab and up to the house. It seemed that Sherlock, while she was lost in her thoughts, had gone in ahead.

John smiled reassuringly before going upstairs ahead of her. He left the door open. She stood awkwardly at the bottom of the steps, looking around. She smelled another omega, but this one was older - past the age of mating. Still, it gave her some measure of comfort as she walked slowly up the stairs.

She gave the door a soft push and it swung open. Again she was assaulted by the strength of Sherlock's overwhelming scent everywhere. She clung to his coat, pulling it tightly around her before shutting the door. She got the feeling of being a mouse lured into the lion's den.

She heard shuffling in what could only be the drawing room, and headed towards the noise. She paused in the door way, taking in the scene before her.

The room itself was a scattered mess, but strangely there seemed to be some sort of control as well. A sort of Chaotic organization. She'd bet anything that Sherlock could find anything in the room in under a minute. There was the yellow spray painted smiley face littered with bullets on the wall. She smiled despite herself, wondering what had frustrated the alpha to the point of shooting a wall. Then her eyes fell on the skull on the mantle place. She was a bit shocked, but didn't comment. It was clean, and the marks on it showed that the person had died of natural causes.

She paused to wonder how she could possibly know that, but shook the thought away as it only made her want to frown. Hopefully she'd figure it out later. Maybe it was part of her old life, more to uncover.

Her eyes settled on Sherlock, who was laying across the couch with his hands steepled under his chin. He almost looked asleep, but there was a kind of tenseness around him that no sleeping person had.

Next, she listened for John. He was. . . somewhere. In the kitchen, she thought by the scents coming from the room. She smelled tea. Maybe he was making a cup. . . could she have some?

"You can after you wash - the bathroom's behind the door just to your left."

Her eyes immediately jerked back to Sherlock. She hadn't seen or hear him move, but suddenly he was sitting up. His elbows were on his knees, his hands still steepled, with his fingertips just touching his lips.

"How. . ."

"Never mind that, stupid question really. Go."

Though the order was there, after seeing him with the cabbie. . . there wasn't nearly as much of a pull to immediately listen and follow his direction.

Not that she didn't want to for her own reasons. She certainly didn't want to continue reeking as she did.

She nodded, still smiling. "All right. Thank you, Sherlock." she said, turning to head for the loo. She didn't miss the slight widening of his eyes.  _Good,_ she thought,  _Maybe it's about time someone surprised him by not asking how high when he said jump._

She shut the bathroom door behind her and locked it, feeling a margin of glee at being able to decide to lock it, as opposed to a forced containment. Her choice.

She released her grip on his coat, and set it carefully on the sink counter, keeping her eyes carefully averted from the mirror. She didn't want to see herself as she was now. Turning away from it, she stripped off the t-shirt, and dropped it to the floor.

She recalled the fireplace in the drawing room. Perhaps they'd allow her to literally burn it? No, it would probably need to be collected as evidence. She sighed softly. Not much she could do for that, she supposed.

She set the water on the shower to the highest it would go. As she tested it on her forearm, she relished the burn of near boiling water. Perfect.

Without waiting another moment, she stepped into the scalding spray, and scrubbed away the grime of countless days and abuses. She used a wash rag, and some plainly scented soap to wash away the filth and scent, until she was red and raw and blessedly clean. She grabbed the only shampoo bottle there and opened it to give it an experimental sniff. Men's, which was obvious considering the person who lived here. It had a plain scent as well, nothing fancy. It just smelled clean. She put a liberal amount in her palm before setting the bottle aside, and she kneaded her head until her hair was sudsy. She rinsed and repeated, and then just stood there under the heated spray, eyes closed, for the longest time. It felt marvelous to be clean.

Of course, she couldn't stay in there forever. As the water began to finally cool, she shut it off and stepped out, wondering what she could possibly change into. It seemed strange to go back out in his coat, and there was no way she was putting the shirt on again.

Then her eyes fell to the carefully folded garments on the counter. They widened as she looked towards the door. Unlocked. She swallowed, and carefully unfolded the clothes. One of them was a simple grey shirt. It would be baggy on her, though she knew it would fit the man it belonged to perfectly. The second item was a pair of blue drawstring pajama bottoms.

Both items smelled like Sherlock.

Blushing, she put on both garments. As she thought, the shirt swallowed her whole, and the pants had to be tied extra snugly to stop them from falling down her slim frame. Even then, the pant legs were much too long for her.

Nervously, she pushed open the door and returned to the drawing room. Both of the men were there. Sherlock was back to his earlier position laying down, though his hands weren't steepled but resting his his stomach as he twiddled his thumbs together. John was sitting comfortably in an armchair. There was a tray of tea set on the table between them. She had the feeling that this was a familiar position for both of them, except for her inclusion.

"Thank you. . . for the clothes." She muttered, looking down at herself, knowing she must look like a little kid playing dress up.

"You look better now. Interesting, how much one's scent changes when it's not obscured by fear and sex."

"Bloody hell Sherlock, do you need a muzzle or something?!" John demanded, glaring at the alpha.

He only shrugged. "Just stating the obvious, John." As always, he was completely unrepentant. Then his eyes fell on her. "Tea." Not a question.

She felt her jaw harden. He really had no tact or manners at all. "You. . . are so nice at times. . . and then you're so mean. Do you try to insult everyone, even those you claim to be helping?" She didn't look up, her glare aimed at the floor, but there was no question that her words were most certainly  _not_ for the ground.

There was a heavy silence. No one seemed to want to break it. John was staring at her in awe at her ability to actually call Sherlock out, and Sherlock seemed speechless for the same reason. Molly was just waiting for the shoe to drop, for him to tell her to get out, or to stop whining, or -

"You're right, Miss Hooper. I apologize. Tea?"

The tension dissipated as she nodded slowly, accepted his apology and the offer of tea rather than the demand for her to drink it. She sat down in the final seat, another armchair, and picked up the remaining cup, sipping slowly to enjoy the taste.

There was silence on all parts as she finished the cup, and set it aside before pulling her legs up into the chair with her, and hugged them close, resting her head on her knees.

John glanced between the two, and cleared his throat, standing. "Right, I'll be going then Sherlock. Mary's expecting me soon. Try not to be an ass." He said, though the small smile meant he was joking. Mostly.

"I'll do my best in that endeavor, I assure you." Came the sarcastic reply.

"That's what worries me."

Molly smiled at the exchange. There was no hostility between them, despite the comments that might have suggested otherwise. It was almost like watching brothers bicker.

Of course, as he said he would, John left, and Sherlock and Molly were alone in the silence that followed.

"The bedroom you can use is upstairs on the left. There's a second bathroom up there as well to the right, but I didn't care to explain that to you earlier, as it was easier with you in the one down here." he spoke, breaking the quiet.

Molly blushed. Right. He'd come into the bathroom while she was in there. . . "How'd you get in?" she asked, looking over at him. Since he made no move to try to meet her gaze, she was able to look at his face.

"I picked the lock - obvious. You didn't have any other clothes, and I doubted you wanted to come out in nothing. Are you complaining?" He asked. She could see the smirk playing at the edges of his lips.

She shook her head. "No. . . it's just. . . odd, I guess."

"As it will be for a while yet, I imagine. I have no intention of coddling you, Miss Hooper. It wastes time, and you don't seem the kind of person who would appreciate it usually."

She nodded. He was quite correct. "And. . . the cabbie, earlier. . ."

"Forget him. He's an idiot."

She nodded again. Right.

She stood, and looked up the stairs. "I'll just. . . go to bed then."

"It's your decision, Miss Hooper."

Another nod and she headed up. She paused on the top step, glancing down at him. His eyes were closed now. "You can call me Molly, you know. I don't mind."

She didn't wait for a reply before taking the last step up, and disappearing into the bedroom.

Sherlock followed the final movement with his eyes, smirk fully displayed now. "Interesting omega indeed." he muttered, shutting his eyes to catalog the pieces of this case.

Molly, meanwhile, settled into the twin bed in the room. It had simple coverings, and didn't really smell like anything, obviously an uninhabited room. She pulled the covers up to her chin, and snuggled into the soft mattress and pillows. her eyes drifted closed, and she allowed sleep to take her, sinking into the first comfortable bed she'd had in a very long time.


	6. Shaken to the Core

_"No! Get off me!"_

_Crying, screaming, his hands all over her, forcing her head against the disgusting ratty mattress as he shoved his dick into her, forced his knot in before she was ready. Even in the heat, it hurt more than words could express. She shrieked in outrage and struggled, but it did nothing to stop the abuse. The disgusting hands roving her body, gripping her hips, forcing her into submission._

_"Damn whore, you love this, take it, take it all!"_

_And she did, over and over again, until she was tired, and her body was limp under his weight._

_A timer went off. The door opened, and the man was literally yanked out of her - the knot caught and it felt like she was being torn in two. It ripped another pained whine from her abused and tired body._

_The alpha snarled, but a quick cuff shut him up, and he was forced from the room by the beta bouncers._

_She was left, whining, torn apart inside and out, to deal with the pain of an unfulfilled heat until the next man was brought in. The next man. The next -_

"Molly!"

She jerked upright as her name was called, and her eyes flew open, locking for an instant with the alpha hovering much to close to her. She could hear a high pitched screaming as she struggled with the sheets covering her to scramble away from him. She got tangled, and fell from the bed in a jumbled heap of duvet. Still the screaming continued, combined now with the occasional wracked sob.

"S-stay aw-way. . . please. . . no more." It wasn't until she spoke, and the screaming stopped that she realized it had been her making the high pitched shrill. Now, she just curled in on herself, pulling the duvet around her and trying to gain control of her sobs, to no avail.

And the alpha was still there, hadn't moved, was watching her. She felt so vulnerable, but she couldn't find the strength to move anymore.

She felt her whole body begin to tremble, and she felt cold, and hot at the same time.

She stiffened, or tried to, when she heard a sigh, and footsteps coming closer to her.  _No. Stay away. Leave me alone._ She pleaded in her mind. Of course, the alpha didn't listen.

Name. She knew his name. What was it?

Sherlock. That's it.

But that knowledge didn't stop her from cringing when he bent down beside her, and picked her up with more gentleness than she thought the man capable of. It didn't stop her from sobbing as he laid her back onto the mattress, her body shaking uncontrollably now.

He pulled the remainder of the blankets left on the bed over her, and she burrowed into the haphazard mess, cocooning herself in the makeshift nest. Even with the instinctual comfort, she couldn't stop shaking.

She let out a small whine when she felt him put a hand on her shoulder through the layers covering her.  _Weight, holding her down. . ._ she cringed away from the touch, and he let her go.

A few minutes passed, and they stayed like that, Molly shivering without halt under a pile of blankets, and Sherlock hovering over her, on the side of the bed.

She wondered why he was still there, why he had to see her at her weakest. Her mind couldn't focus long enough for her to make more than a small whining sound, of pain and humiliation. She could feel the sheet under her cheek getting soaked with her tears, but she didn't even have enough motivation to move to a dryer spot.

Everything ached and hurt, as though she really had just been struggling, as if she was still struggling, against an unseen force. She began to feel itchy, especially on her forearms, a horrid tingling sensation that almost burned, forcing her to tense her muscles to even slightly ease the pain. It was exhausting.

Sleep. She wanted sleep.

"Rest. You're going through withdrawal, and I suspect a night terror as well. Sleep is the only thing for it, until your body stops craving the drug they forced into you."

That voice, seeming to read her mind, broke through the barrier. A shiver ran down her spine, and she burrowed even farther into the nest, curling in on herself until her knees were against her chest, and her arms wrapped around them to keep them close to her.

_Sleep. But he's in here, alpha, danger, can't sleep, can't -_

Again, the hand was placed delicately on her shoulder, cutting off her thoughts.

"Your scent is changing. You're afraid. Don't be. You're safe here, Molly. I promise, no one will hurt you here." Deep, warmth, with the ever-present dominance and control. Now, it seemed stifled, as though he were making an effort to keep it out of his tone. Strangely, it calmed her. She was able to, well, not stop shaking, but at least not tremble as badly.

Neither of them moved. He stayed sitting on the side of the bed, quiet, just waiting for her to sleep.

And she did. After several minutes, she managed to sleep, curled into the blankets, trembling, nauseous, hot and cold at the same time, and just generally miserable. But she slept.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

That was just the first of several times it happened that night. Sometimes, she woke up screaming, others times crying. Once, she'd woken fighting, her nails digging into something solid that she never got to identify before she was asleep again, too exhausted to stay awake for more than a few minutes, despite knowing that sleep would only recall the nightmarish images.

She whined, twisted, and turned in her sleep, knocking the blankets aside often, but they were always replaced by diligent hands, a diligent man who paced the room, watching with a clinical eye as the night terrors and withdrawal plagued her.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

Vaguely, Molly heard voices muttering around her. She could barely catch snatches of what was said.

"... Hospital... Not safe... Needs medical..."  _Sherlock, it's not safe to leave her like this. She needs to have proper medical attention._

"... John... She'll be fine... Withdrawal... Called you... Examination... resort... week.."  _John, I know it looks bad, but she'll be fine. She's in the middle of a heavy withdrawal from whatever drug they put into her. I called you here to give her an examination without needing to resort to taking her to the hospital. She's been in this condition for a little less than a week._ _  
_

"... Miracles... Take her... "  _I can't work miracles. Take her to the hospital._

"I can't. It's not safe."

Molly whined, finally hearing a full sentence. Her throat felt raw, and the sound cracked as it came out.

All the talking stopped, and she heard a faint scraping sound, like a chair being pushed away from a desk really fast.

"Sherlock, what are you -"

"Shut up." The alpha hissed.

a weight fell on the bed, and suddenly she was being uncovered. The light above her was too bright. She kept her eyes firmly close, scrunched together.

An arm was slid under her shoulders, and she was lifted up as something was pushed against her mouth. She make a small whimper of protest, which was shushed.

"It's just water Molly. Drink."

Again, the something - a glass, apparently - was tipped against her mouth, until just a bit of cool liquid touched her lips. At first, she parted her lips and drank hesitantly, but as the water ran down her parched throat, she swallowed quickly until the glass was pulled away.

A slight clicking let her know it was set aside, and then she was being lowered back onto the bed, and the hand was removed from around her shoulders. The weight remained, Sherlock sitting on the bed.

Molly curled on her side, facing him as she pulled the covers until all but her eyes and the top of her head was covered by the duvet. Finally, she opened them, and looked slowly up at him. He was staring down at her.

She felt tired and weak, more so than she had in a very long time, even throughout her captivity. She wanted to curl up and go back to sleep, but at the same time she felt as though she couldn't sleep another minute.

A cleared throat drew both their attention. Molly blushed and ducked her head fully under the covers, realizing that John had been there, watching the entirety of her frailty.

Sherlock just rolled his eyes and stood, straightening and rolling up the sleeves on his shirt. "I told you, she'll be fine. Recovering already, though I doubt she'll be fully so for at least another week."

John let out an aggravated sigh. "She still should go to a hospital, Sherlock. She hasn't eaten in who knows how long -"

"Five days. I've gone longer." Sherlock cut up, only earning a glare from John.

"That's not healthy for either of you, idiot. Order in if it's too difficult to cook, but both of you need to eat in the next hour, or I'm sending Mrs. Hudson up here to worry over you both."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes minutely. Bit underhanded, sending Mrs. Hudson to cluck at him for eating, let alone to set the old woman on Molly. He knew John would do it too, if he didn't comply. "Fine. I'll order in. Satisfied?"

"Not really, but it's a step in the right direction."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "All right, your assistance is no longer required. You may leave."

The slightly smug look John had gained from getting his way faded into a scowl. "I'm not some on call personnel, you know."

"And yet I called, and here you are."

The scowl turned into a glare. "Prat. Just make sure to eat."

Footsteps, and a door opening, and John was gone.

Molly slowly peeled away the blankets over her head, glancing at the door, then at Sherlock. He was watching her again. She would have said it was like a wolf watching a rabbit, predator watching prey... but that analogy didn't really work. There was nothing violent about his gaze, just... overly curious, may have been a better way to describe it. Hungry for information.

Her cheeks warmed, and Molly shifted her gaze down, away from his. Her eyes landed on his arms, crossed in front of his chest now as he leaned against the wall. With the sleeves rolled up, she could see large scratches down his left forearm.

Then she recalled gripping something earlier, that she hadn't been able to identify. "Did I... do that?" She asked, mortified, and a bit scared. She'd hurt an alpha, after all. She could only expect retribution. She flinched under the covers.

Sherlock looked down at his arm, and shrugged. "It's fine." he began, " You were delirious at the time, I hold no ill will. Quite frankly, I'm surprised you managed to leave marks, in the state you were in. You're a fighter, though no one would think it just looking at you." He finished, raising his eyes back to where hers had been a moment ago, before she hid herself under the blankets.

Sherlock knew the genetics, knew the meaning behind her actions. Nesting. A nest meant safety, no matter that it was just a haphazard collection of sheets, blankets and pillows. It brought comfort to omegas in pain, or scared, or pregnant. Their uses were numerous.

It took him only a moment to figure out why she'd hidden herself again, especially with the sudden fear scent coming off of her in waves.

"I don't intend to strike you. This is the real world, Molly. Here, omegas are viewed the same as anyone else. The barbaric times of arranged marriages between alphas and omegas is long past. After you regain your memories, that will be quite plain. Now," He said, pushing off the wall. "I'm going to order the food, since John was entirely serious about sending Mrs. Hudson up here if I didn't eat, and ensure you eat, soon. While you'll meet her eventually, and probably take comfort from her since she's an omega as well, meeting her because of John's interference and her worry would not be wise."

He paused then, long enough for Molly to slowly push away the covers and sit up in the bed. Sherlock was at the door, only his head turned towards her as he waited for some sort of response. She clutched the top sheet close to her chest, and nodded.

"That would be... fine... Thank you." She muttered politely.

Scarcely had she spoken the words and he was gone, bounding down the stairs to do... whatever it was he was doing.

Molly assumed she was meant to prepare herself up here, and join him when she was ready.


	7. Strength in the Frailty

Molly spent more time than she'd care to admit just sitting up in the bed, working up the energy to scoot to the edge and put her feet on the cold wood floor.

She stood, but instantly regretted it as her knees buckled and her legs slid out from under her. She let out a soft whine as her shins banged on the hard floor. The legs on her pajama bottoms did nothing to soften the blow.

She stayed there for a bit, trying to get her heart to stop beating so loudly. Now that she'd tried to move, she realized how utterly exhausted she was, even after al lthe sleep she'd seemed to have gotten. Then again, that hadn't been a proper rest.

Four days. Had she really been out that long?

She ground her teeth together, and gripped the edge of the bed to hoist herself up. She refused to wait for help. She could bloody well walk herself.

Her legs were shaky under her, but she gripped the bed post until she was reasonably certain that she'd stay upright. She managed, just barely, as she let go.

It was slower than she would have liked, but she managed to lift one foot in front of the other, until she was standing in the door frame, leaning against it. Again, her heart was beating fast. It felt as though she'd just run a marathon, and it wasn't even over yet.

She paled slightly, looking out on the flight of stairs. When she got here, the twenty steps had been nothing. Now, she may as well have been descending the steps of the great wall of China. Okay, that may have been a stretch, but it still seemed daunting, looking at it now.

Taking a deep breath, she pushed away from the door frame, and quickly wrapped her fingers around the banister. Still, she hesitated at the top of the stairs. Falling would not be very pleasant from up here.

Staying up here would be ridiculous though.

Swallowing, she took the first tentative step.

Great. Only nineteen more to go.

_Relax, you can do this Molly. It's just a few steps._

At a snail's pace, she took the rest of the steps. She had to pause to stop her legs from shaking occasionally, but she kept moving step by slow, agonizing step.

Thankfully, in her mind at least, Sherlock wasn't there to see any more of her weakness. She could hear him moving around in what she could only assume to be the kitchen.

Reaching the bottom of the steps, she paused, and allowed herself to sit down on the last step. She felt drained, pathetic and weak in the face of a few measly stairs. It was ridiculous. She was stronger than this.

Letting out an aggravated huff, Molly forced herself back to her feet using the banister to pull herself up, just as she had with the bedpost.

With stiff limbs, she walked into the kitchen, keeping her gaze down to watch her steps until she reached the table and was able to take a proper seat in one of the dining chairs.

She could hear Sherlock in the room, but she was focused on not slumping against the table, so she didn't see him come up to her until the white Styrofoam tray was placed in front of her. She jerked away from it instinctively, and the fast motion left her almost nauseous. At the same time, the scents wafting up from the tray made her salivate, making her realize how long it had been since she'd eaten any sort of good meal.

She looked up at Sherlock as he stepped away, then back down at the food in front of her. It was Chinese, some sort of takeaway. She couldn't think of what the dish was called at the moment, but it looked delicious, chunks of seasoned chicken mixed with water chestnuts, baby corns, onions, carrots, and broccoli, sitting on a bed of sticky rice. Sitting on top of it all were the chopsticks, but she knew she wouldn't have the coordination to eat properly with them.

She picked up the useless utensils and frowned as she set them aside. Who honestly thought two sticks were a viable eating implement? Still, she didn't want to eat with her hands like some animal. She'd done much too much of that already.

Before she could voice any of her thoughts, a cup was placed in front of her as well, and a fork was held expectantly out to her. She took it hesitantly, barely looking up at Sherlock.

"Thank you." She said softly, looking back down at her food as she began to pick at it lightly. Despite her hunger, she didn't want to immediately gorge herself. If she did, she was certain it would make her sick. It was never good to go from eating barely anything to eating a lot all at once. It even killed some people whose stomachs couldn't handle it and ruptured.

_And how exactly do I know that?_

The look of confusion on her face must have shown something, because Sherlock, who'd claimed his own seat at the other side of the table to eat his forced meal, set his chopsticks aside and turned his full attention on her. "What is it?"

Molly swallowed her current bite of food hastily, and washed it down with a quick sip of her drink - a light tea with plenty of milk and sugar - to stall. Even so, her cheeks were a bit red, having his analytical gaze suddenly turned on her again.

She had to look down before replying. "It's silly, really... just a little odd fact. I don't even know where I learned it."

"What fact? It may seem banal to you, but it could be very important." He leaned forward and had his elbows on the table. His hands were together and his finger tips were pressed to his lips.

"It's just that... If someone who doesn't eat for a long time suddenly eats a lot all at once, there's a chance that they could die due to a tearing in the stomach, causing the contents of the stomach, whatever was eaten and the acid inside, to spread rapidly to vital organs." It sounded even more gruesome than when it was just a thought. She waited for the inevitable odd look. After all, what kind of person would have such strange, disgusting thoughts while they're eating?

Instead, Sherlock just smirked, and leaned back in his chair. "You're right. It is merely a random tidbit, though it does help in one aspect - I can confirm that you are in the medical field, though I'd already suspected as much from the small cuts on the tips of your fingers where the scalpel slipped. Finish your meal Molly." With the final statement, Sherlock stood and went into the drawing room, out of sight, leaving Molly to her thoughts.

Medical. She's always been able to remember the scent of rubbing alcohol, and of rubber gloves. Well, it was well known that the sense of smell, even in betas, was the best sense and had the longest memory. She looked down at her hand, at the pad of her right index finger, and ran the pad of her thumb across the small scars there. They were rough, but somehow comforting. It felt like a familiar gesture. Maybe she had made it often back when she had worked.

She wasn't much for eating anymore, so she stood carefully. She felt a bit stronger now thanks to the meal, however small it was, so she was able to step away from the table without using anything to support herself. She closed the food up, and, noticing that Sherlock had left his open as well and seemed to have no plan to eat any more anytime soon, she gathered his up as well and moved to stick it in the fridge.

The sight that greeted her as she opened up the door should have revolted her. Instead, she stared calmly at the severed leg for a moment, before setting the containers on the clean shelf above it, and shutting it. She couldn't say why the appendage didn't bother her more, but something told her it was - mostly - innocuous, aside from the slightly rotten smell.

Pleased to be able to move a bit, she collected their silverware and cups, and rinsed them off before placing them in the sink. It felt good to do something so simple, so normal again.

Smiling softly at her small accomplishments, she wandered into the drawing room, pausing slightly as she saw Sherlock in the same position he'd been in the last time she was in here, laying down on the couch with his hands steepled and his fingertips against his lips.

 _Must be his thinking position or something._ She thought absentmindedly, sitting down in one of the available arm chairs and pulling her legs up to cradle them as she watched him.

She felt drawn to him, and the more she looked, the more she thought she recognized him from somewhere. If only she could pin exactly where. Maybe she was imagining things, and they'd never met. Maybe she was clinging to an imagined past. She didn't know. She just knew that, as she watched him deep in thought, she felt safe.


	8. Into the Mind Palace

Molly didn't know what it was about the alpha that put her so at ease. He was rude, crass, had very little tact, and seemed to enjoy pushing others around. But... he was, sometimes, nice. He had obviously been taking care of her while she was ill. He'd given her someplace to go, rather than her original plan to find a hotel of some kind.

And he just seemed... familiar somehow. If only she could pin down why that was so.

As she watched Sherlock in what was no doubt his calmest state, she began to doze. The flat was quiet aside from the ticking of the clock. Before long, she was curled up in the armchair, arms crossed on one side of the chair and her legs curled up in front of her as she slept lightly.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

Sherlock was lost in his mind. Well, not literally lost. He knew every hall, every light source, every room of his mind palace, down to the last handle on every door he'd created. He was simply exploring, trying to find the nagging piece of information that seemed buried within the walls, tucked away into a far corner until it was forgotten except for the barest hints of what was lost.

But first, he walked down the hall he made for his current cases. It was the most fluctuating area in his mind palace, since it changed with every case he took. Now, it was filled with rooms and halls packed with information on this case and any pertinent information from his previous cases that might be of use.

The string of thought he followed led him to the room concerning the time since Molly had become known to him, and he allowed the memories to flow through his mind as he walked down the hall. He wanted to find new information, and instead was met with the feeling, always nagging that he didn't have all the information he could have on her. It was locked away somewhere in the many halls of his mind palace.

The nagging started at the raid on the facility, when a very distinct scent crept in from the stench of heat and dirt and filth.

Despite the disgusting odor of it all, the aroma had broken through. It was omega, but then, several of the scents coming from the secluded room were. They were all meant to entice compatible alphas. The strongest scents, coming from those in heat, were of cherry blossoms, vanilla, cinnamon, and even citrus. Other weaker scents were of fresh peaches, strawberries and cream, ginger, and a few other nondescript aromas. All of them clashed, horribly so, until what was meant to be a pleasant scent from each woman became a jumbled stink that permeated from every crack and crevasse.

He almost wished for a moment to have John's much less keen sense of smell. However, one look at the beta's face told him that it was hitting him just as badly, even if John could not read the distinct flavors within the stench as he or the other alphas could.

But that scent, the one that stuck out, the one that did not clash with every other scent in the building, ensnared him. It wasn't a combination of the usual omega scents. It was of coffee beans and fresh baked bread, with undertones of coconut oil and honey. It smelled of home.

As each door was opened, it was like an explosion of scent knocked into him. He could tell that Lestrade felt it as well. Sometimes, the omega inside the room was cowering. Other times, they were waiting at the door happily, though their eyes seemed dead. The worst though, the absolute worst, had been when they were in heat, begging for it and trying to cling to Sherlock since he seemed to be the most alpha of those closest. They smelled wrong, vile even, with home so close. Sherlock was more than glad to see them taken away, to have one less scent fighting with the others.

Eventually, all scents were removed, and slowly fading. Except the one. And John and Lestrade were happy with their findings. It was then he'd realized that Lestrade didn't pick up the scent that was so clear to him.

Sherlock took matters into his own hands. It didn't take long to find the door, somewhat hidden behind a staircase. He simply followed his nose. Of course the others followed him. They still didn't smell it though, even as another wave hit them all full force.

The argument that ensued as they went down was completely ridiculous -  _how could they not smell her?_ Of course, she was there, huddled in a corner. The scent was everywhere, the whole room clogged with it. But what infuriated him was the scent of sex and other alphas and her blood, ingrained into the very walls.

That was why he ordered her to come, heedless of what John said. And she came, so timidly, eyes lowered like the perfect submissive. But even as she meekly approached, the stiffness her her body told him she didn't want to. Resistance had been ground from her. And she still fought. Amazing.

It was that thought that had him ordering her upstairs, away from him. He deserved the smack John gave him. He knew he did. It didn't stop him from retaliating, from gaining ground back with what was - to the doctor at least - some sort of logic behind his reasoning.

When their brief argument ended, and he felt he was calm once more, he headed upstairs. The anger came back when he saw them talking - Molly and Lestrade. He and Lestrade could never see completely eye to eye. Even if they weren't both alphas, he cared little for the protocols that working with the Yard required. But something inside him raged. And damn it all, her scent was still  _everywhere._ It was no surprise that Lestrade and he almost had a confrontation, perhaps a full blown fight. It was John that stopped it. Then Molly.

Again, Molly. He certainly hadn't expected her to even let out a whisper with two alphas, clearly agitated, so close by. He, along with the others, looked her over, struck with silence. Despite her brave words, she squirmed under their combined gazes.

And the gesture was... familiar. That was when the nagging truly began, the biting and clawing in his mind, telling him he was not working with all the known details in front of him as he should be.

Apparently, as he contemplated this, a conversation had carried on without him. He barely popped back in in time to hear her saying she would sort out living arrangements herself. He couldn't have that. He needed her close. For the case, of course.

The case. Nothing more.

Which is why, for the case, he offered her his home. Well, stated she'd be living there.

He gave John every detail, every fact as to why it made sense. And it did, logically. It made sense for her to live with him. John understood, was forced to understand, the logic in his words. Yet they sounded like excuses to him now.

No. It was for the case.

He gave her his coat simply to speed things along. She was walking too slowly when dealing with the short hem of her shirt. That disgusting shirt, covered in the stink of semen and alpha and sex and, yes, even her blood again.

They all worked to cover her scent. Baked bread and coffee, coconut oil and honey. But... but... they didn't. Not fully at least.

He found himself on edge again, even as he kept his stoic appearance. Even seeing her wrapped in his coat. It would have to be dry cleaned to remove the scent. He didn't care. He should have.

It only got worse on the way home, from the cabbie's idiotic remarks, to him sending her to shower to remove that awful stink before it could sink into the flat. Of course, he realized too late that in sending her to bathe, he had also left her without anything to change into - a stupid mistake, he should have caught in an instant. That he hadn't only angered him more. The omega had clouded his thoughts so fully.

Sherlock could remember easily her silhouette behind the curtain as he brought in a few of his old clothes - they were all that was readily available. His eyes had fallen onto the curtain purely by accident, since it was in straight view of the door. She'd been facing the spray, rinsing shampoo - his shampoo - from her hair. She had let out the softest sound of pleasure, he doubted she even realized she'd made it, and an aggravating rush of blood had gone straight to the appendage between his legs.

He set down the clothes and left the room quickly, glaring at nothing in particular as he willed away the unwanted erection. He was resettled on the couch, and John was back with the tea before she was out of the shower. More importantly, however, he'd regained control of his body.

Until he inhaled.

Her scent was stronger now, undiluted by the previous odors. He would admit, in the privacy of his mind, that his comment following her thanks was less than necessary, verging on rude, simply because he had been trying to keep down his again-interested cock. Damn thing hadn't acted like this since his adolescent years.

Hearing the pain in her voice in the following moment subdued him, even as his alpha part - the part he tried to usually keep bottled up and out of sight - scolded him. Even now, as he walked among his deepest inner thoughts, it scolded him for creating such emotions an a highly compatible -

Sherlock slammed the door on that thought before it could fully form. She was not compatible in any way. He scowled at the new angle of the memory, and turned to another admittedly linked thread. He allowed it to lead him elsewhere, to the drug withdrawals she suffered in the following days.

He skimmed quickly through the week of her illness, refusing to linger on the darker thoughts his mind conjured up, of how soft her skin was and how protective he'd been of her prone form, barely allowing John to examine her as he paced mere feet away.

His fists clenched at the memory of some of her words in her most delusional state - her whines and cries and occasional screams as she no doubt relived some of the more horrible treatment she was given. She thrashed about during those periods, fighting off whoever or whatever she perceived to be assaulting her. It was during one such attack that she'd clawed his arm, not that he held her accountable.

He stashed the more violent bits away, to be deleted as soon as possible. He did not need the sounds of rape creeping into his mind and wreaking havoc on his palace.

_Especially not of her._

Sherlock's head whipped around at the sudden thought, not his own and yet his own, which vibrated throughout the hall for just a moment before it faded away. It was long enough for him to realize where it was coming from.

Why hadn't he checked there before? She was medically trained, obviously, and he only used one facility for his experiments, so there was only one place he could have met her before this.

He left the case hall quickly and headed towards a more homey section of his mind palace. There was a clear change between the areas. While the case rooms were filled with rank smells and cold feelings, the farther away he got, the warmer it seemed to become, until he found the correct room.

He stood in front of it for a moment, examining the cold steel door, reminiscent of the hospital doors at Saint Bartholomew's. He pushed it open, and walked calmly through the hall, reading the door labels as he went, until he found one marked for important employees.

Another pause, and he opened that door as well. There were very few people here. Mike, the beta who introduced him to John, and a few other scattered individuals.

He almost turned and left then, seeing none that looked even remotely like Molly, until he caught the barest hint of her scent. He went slower now, stepping further into the room and looking closer.

There was another smaller door concealed in the shadows of this room, forgotten over time. It struck him as odd that he would forget a door, unless he had done so on purpose. He rarely did such things because he never knew when something would become necessary again.

He walked to the door, and ran his fingertips across it's surface. There was a thick film of dust on it, more proof of the lack of care to the room. But the scent of her came from just behind it.

He twisted the knob, and the door creaked open.


	9. Broken

Someone nudged Sherlock none too gently, and he was yanked quite forcefully from the confines of his mind palace. The door had opened, but he had no chance to view the information inside, which left him clueless until he could return.

He came out of his palace with a snarl, sitting up and glaring at the rouser. Molly had been leaning over him as she nudged him, but she had fallen back onto her arse and scuttled several feet away as he stood.

"What?" he snapped, unperturbed by her quivering. The scent of fear rolled off of her in waves.

"T-the phone." She finally stammered out. She seemed paralyzed, frozen in place by his sharp eyes on her. He became aware of the buzzing of his cellphone as she said something of it.

Sherlock removed his penetrating gaze from her, and the spell of an angry, insanely dominant alpha's eyes boring into her was broken.

She stood quickly and darted for the stairs. The strong scent of her fear and a strange hint of arousal followed her.

Sherlock growled softly under his breath, and forced himself to simply /not/ react to her scent as he answered the phone.

"What is it Lestrade?" His voice displayed a majority of his ire, not that he tried hard to hide it.

Sherlock could almost hear the frown when Lestrade replied. "First, we need Miss Hooper down at the station so we can get her statement since she's feeling better. Second, we may have found some information on her real identity." Had he been here, Sherlock was certain they would have butted heads. Again.

As it was, he growled slightly into the phone. He was still annoyed, but obviously his palace would have to wait.

"Fine. I'll bring her over in an hour. Good bye." He hung up without waiting for a response.

He looked towards the stairs, his breath another soft growl.  _Obnoxious woman, should know better than to bother me when I'm thinking._

That thought had his steps towards her room slowing, and stopping at the bottom of the stairs, one foot poised on the bottom step. Why should she know? He had been told that he occasionally looked like he was napping when he was in his mind palace. She wouldn't have dealt with that before.

_She does know. It's simply locked inside her mind. Try to remember._

Sherlock frowned. That wasn't his thought. Well, it came from his mind, so obviously it was his own thought, but it came from a voice that he recognized, but that didn't match up with the softer tones he'd grown used to.

More to investigate later, though he wasn't fond of the idea of whatever was behind that door being free without his supervision. If it was locked away, it was for good reason.

He continued up the stairs to Molly's room.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

The phone had rung several times before Molly had decided to rouse Sherlock. She thought perhaps he'd fallen asleep, he'd been so still the last hour that she'd been awake.

She stood from her perch on the chair, and walked over to the couch to gently prod him awake. The call must have been important, or else the person wouldn't have called so many times, and she didn't want to answer it herself.

She didn't expect the viciousness of his awakening. His snarl, directed clearly at her, had sent a shiver of undisguised terror through her as she fell backwards and scuttled as quickly as possible away from him despite her awkward motions as she also tried to keep her eyes on the threat he posed.

She could barely respond to his snapped question as the tremors quaked through her and she was forced to relive a terrifying part of her entrapment in her mind. She expected a punishment for disturbing the angered alpha before her. The worst part, though, was the tingle that ran through her. She felt the need, the  _want_ , to submit to this dominant man. That terrified her even more so than her memories, because as horrid as they had been, as torturous, she had never, once, wanted to submit as she did now.

She was glad when he looked away, freeing her from his glare and allowing her to finally flee up the stairs as her mind and body fought against each other. It made her feel sick.

She was sick.

As soon as she got to her room and slammed the door behind her, she whirled on the trash bin thankfully within reach and retched inside it, expelling all the food she had taken in.

Her hair fell forward, receiving some of the mess as well. She gagged, snot and tears and spit dripping into the basket. It was wrong, so wrong. She knelt down by the trash bin, and leaned against the wall, eyes shut tight as she tried to regain control of her warring body.

Images flashed in her mind. Steel tables, corpses laying upon them, Scalpels and other medical tools she couldn't identify, blue latex gloves on someone's - on her - hands, blood on those gloves. Words on the side of a large building: St. Bartholomew's Hospital. Faces, kind ones, dead ones, hateful, cruel, tortured ones who had died in pain, those who kept her captive. She couldn't take the imagery.

She clutched her head and screamed.  _Make them go away. Please God, make them go away._

The door burst open, but Molly didn't bother looking up. Her nose told her who it was, the person she least wanted to see. His scent was poison. His voice was hell.

God, did she want to burn in that hell.

So wrong. Shouldn't want that. Wrong.

She clutched at the trash bin and dry heaved, spitting remnants of vomit into it.

She felt a hand on her back, gentle. Wrong.

He gathered her hair up as she gagged.

Finally, it stopped, and she slumped against the waste basket.

"Please just leave me alone," she whimpered, speaking to the images in her mind as much as to him.

He didn't go. As if she expected him to. Instead, he picked her up bridal style. She let out a whine of complaint, and pushed against his chest, but there was no force in the action. She trembled as he carried her from the room.

She refused to open her eyes, refused to look up at him.

He walked her into another room, and set her down on a cold, hard surface.

Then he turned the spigot, and the lukewarm water from the shower washed over her. She coughed and shivered at the cold, her clothes clinging to her body as they became drenched.

The water actually helped. It numbed her head. Finally, the images stopped. It also faded his scent. She took a deep breath.

The disgusting aftertaste of illness became more prominent now, but she had scarcely become aware of it when he was lifting her hand and putting something into it. She opened her eyes just a crack to see what it was. Toothbrush. Some toothpaste was already on it. She didn't need coaxing after that.

She brushed her teeth hard, the mint erasing the vile taste from her mouth. She spit into the drain of the sink, and it washed away with everything else.

She flinched as she felt his hands in her hair, but his actions were soft, massaging something - a sweet, floral shampoo, by the scent - into her hair.

He worked diligently. Molly could have almost called it pampering, if it hadn't been for the circumstances. As it was, she was wary of him, this man who was so much of a threat to her.

He rinsed her hair carefully, detaching the shower head since she was disinclined to move.

He turned off the water and pulled a towel down from the shelf. He dried her hair carefully.

Sherlock was being so gentle. It almost calmed her down, except she was just waiting for the snarling anger to return. Sometimes, the men who held her would pretend to be nice until she relaxed. Then they'd punish her.

He laid the towel over her shoulders. It didn't do much good on top of her clothes, but it was meant to be a comforting gesture.

He left the room. Molly thought he was gone for good, leaving her to sort herself out now. Maybe he'd finally gotten tired of caring for her, a broken omega. A broken human being. She began to cry, burying her head in her soaking knees and clutching them close.

Sherlock came back soon after. He had a small bundle in his hands, which he placed on the counter before kneeling beside the tub.

"Molly." He said softly, almost... submissively? But that didn't make sense. Not for an alpha.

The sheer shock of his light tone had her raising her eyes.

Eyes red rimmed and blotchy, damp hair sticking to her cheeks and forehead as the wet clothes clung to her, she didn't even want to imagine the kind of mess she must look like.

Sherlock frowned slightly, reading her body language. _Deducing_. Her eyebrows scrunched together. She wasn't sure where the term came from. Had he called it that in front of her at one point?

She sniffled, wiping her eyes and cheeks and nose. She blinked. "Yeah?" She responded softly.

"There's clothes on the counter for you to change into. Lestrade wants you at the station to get your statement. He also says he may have found information on your life." Before your kidnapping. he didn't say the words, but they trailed behind the rest of the sentence and hung precariously in the air between them.

She swallowed and nodded. "All right."

He nodded in return, and left the room for her to change.

She stood on shaky feet, and stripped the damp clothes from her body before going to the counter. Unlike what she'd just gotten out of, these clothes were her size, every piece. A pale yellow shirt with a single cherry above her left breast, and a soft beige cashmere sweater. A pair of brown slacks. Even her undergarments were the correct size, a matching black set, comfortable and functional and not too decorated, aside from a small bow in the center of the bra.

She felt like she should be embarrassed, that he had seen enough of her to know exactly what sizes to get, but it didn't bother her. It felt like something he would know about anyone, should he care to.

She exited the bathroom on the clothes. Sherlock was waiting for her, leaning against the wall across from the door. She cleared her throat slightly.

He looked up. "I apologize, Molly. I shouldn't have snapped at you. I believe, in this case, John would aptly have called me an arse for doing so, and seeing your reaction, I am inclined to agree with his perceived insult. Are you all right now?"

She looked down for a moment. Yes. She was okay. Anxious, a bit on edge, but okay. Eventually, she nodded. "Yeah."

Suddenly, it felt like the air had been lifted. Sherlock let out a breath he seemed to have been holding, and he smiled.

"Excellent." He all but bounced off the wall in his exuberance. It was almost a whiplash, how quickly he went from apologetic and almost submissive, to the clear leader in the room.

Molly couldn't help the tiniest of smiles. "Oh, Sherlock," she said, and he turned once more, giving her his attention. It wasn't in the same way as earlier. This was full of curiosity, not ire. She liked this look.

Promptly shoving aside that thought, she spoke. "I remembered something. Saint Bartholomew's Hospital. I think... I think I worked there."

His eyes got wide, and so did his grin. "You're regaining your memories, Excellent! Even if you seem to regain them through your attacks, brilliant!" He didn't seem to notice doing it. It was certainly too fast for her to stop him has she wanted to, but one second, he was animatedly pacing, and the next, he was stopped in front of her, grabbing her head and kissing her forehead hard.

Then he was off again, running to the door. "Come on, Molly! Lestrade's waiting!" He shouted over his shoulder.

Molly gaped at where he'd stood just moments before.

She shook her head. Just because of his... excitement. Nothing was meant by the gesture.

Then why, as she followed him, did her heart suddenly beat fast, and her mind want to forget having just been terrified of him?


	10. To Protect and Defend

The cab ride was quiet. It wasn't a heavy silence though. Sherlock was thinking, looking out of the window, and Molly was contemplating on what she could tell the Detective Inspector, Lestrade. She remembered more now about the day she was taken, and there would be questions in more detail regarding her captivity. She wasn't looking forward to this at all.

The cab stopped in front of Scotland Yard and after a short exchange of currency they exited together.

Sherlock walked purposefully, clearly at ease approaching the police station. Molly, in contrast, trailed a few steps behind. She knew instinctively that most of the law enforcement would be alphas, men and women made to rule, govern, and protect, and she didn't want to be someplace with so many of them at once.

She paused just a step inside the building. The door clicked shut behind her and, with Sherlock several steps ahead of her,she felt several eyes land on her.

She felt the panic rising as the scent of so many strange alphas assaulted her. There were a few betas, but no omegas, no one she could connect with to make her feel safe. She felt her throat beginning to constrict with fear.

Her eyes darted from one face to the next. There were so many people staring at her now.

She took a stumbling step back, bumping into the door. The door handle dug into her back painfully.

_You're so pathetic, Molly. How can you even hope to return to a semblance of normalcy if you can't even handle this? You don't deserve help anyway. You let it happen. It's your fault, you disgusting wh-_

Molly was saved from the cruel words of her inner demons by a hand placed on her shoulder, shaking her gently.

She opened her eyes - when had she closed them? - and gazed forward into Sherlock's. He was kneeling in front of her. When had her knees given out on her? Molly felt her eyes begin to water. She brought her hand up to wipe her tears away, but they just kept coming.

"S-sorry. I'm f-fine." She stammered, clenching her fists tightly when he saw her hands trembling.

Sherlock had a look of pure dubiousness at her words.

"Molly, nothing will happen to you here. You are safe. I won't let anything happen. Do you trust me?" He spoke softly but surely, in a way that made his words sink past her anxiety. In a way that made her feel that the words were for her and her alone.

She swallowed and nodded. Another sniffle, another swipe of her hand to wipe away the tears. They stopped this time, through her eyes were still watery.

Sherlock stood and offered her his hand. She took it after a moment's hesitation, and he lifted her up to her feet as well.

Her legs felt weak, and the word  _pathetic_  rang through her mind once more. She cast her eyes to the ground, a small whine caught in her throat.

Sherlock lifted her gaze back up. "You're wrong." He didn't have to elaborate, nor did she need to ask how he could possibly know what she was thinking. It just felt... natural.

She blinked, and managed a small smile as she nodded.

"Are you ready to talk with Lestrade now?"

Another nod.

This time, he returned her smile. "Good."

He turned from her, though his hand still firmly held hers, an anchor to sanity.

He looked towards the alpha in question. "Lestrade, is the office ready?"

Lestrade nodded, a dumbfounded look on his face, and led the way. Sherlock led her as he followed the other alpha.

Molly was once again aware that so many people had seen her panic attack. Over a dozen people had been witness to it all, the whole scene, and she felt her cheeks heat up with shame. It wasn't their fault she was so weak.

Sherlock didn't turn around to face her, but somehow he knew. He gave her hand a gentle squeeze, and Molly's eyes were drawn to his back.

He was such an oddity, one moment complete and utter terrifying dominance, the next protective and... safe. In her mind, at least. It scared her, how much she found herself relying on this stranger, no matter how familiar he seemed.

Surely he would have said something by now if he had known her though.

Sherlock guided her to the available seat across from Lestrade in his office before he finally let go of her hand. He didn't go far, gripping the back of her seat as he hovered behind her.

Lestrade rounded the desk to sit in his own seat, though he gave Sherlock a skeptical look.

After a moment, he sighed. "Sherlock, you know you can't be in here when I speak with Miss Hooper. It's against protocol."

Immediately, Molly could feel Sherlock stiffen, his hackles rising. "You didn't give a damn about protocol when you let me take her home, knowing she should have gone to a health facility. Try again, Lestrade."

Lestrade all but scowled at the other alpha. "You are currently affecting a police investigation by tampering with a witness. Get out before I have to arrest you." He got to his feet as he spoke, clear posturing. This was Lestrade's domain, not Sherlock's, and clearly the alpha wasn't willing to back down this time.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, his grip on the seat tightening, and he used his height to his advantage, standing tall. "I've had over a week to 'tamper' with the witness had I wanted to. I'm not -"

A gentle hand placed over his stopped him mid-growl. He looked down at Molly as she nibbled her lips nervously.

"I'll be fine. Please, I don't want you to get into trouble," she said softly. In truth, she didn't want him to go, but... she didn't want him to hear what she had to say about her experience, or whatever else Lestrade might ask. She knew how broken she was. She didn't want him to see it anymore than he already had.

Sherlock seemed to deliberate for a moment before he nodded. "All right, Molly." He was oddly restrained as he spoke, and he left without another word or care for the bemused expression on Lestrade's face.

As soon as the door shut behind him, Lestrade whistled low and softly. "I've never seen him act like that before. Usually, he just tells people to piss off. Even omegas," he explained briefly. After a moment, he let out a sigh and leaned forward on the desk, his hands folded together on top of it. Clearly, it was time for the difficult part.

Lestrade pulled out a recorder, and set it on the desk. "Do you mind? Easier than writing things down."

Molly nodded her consent, sitting up a bit straighter as she prepared herself for it. She didn't want to do this, but she knew she had to, if the police had any hope of finding more of the people involved.

Lestrade started the recorder, gave the day, time, and interview information before he addressed her. "Well Miss Hooper, let's go through this a step at a time. Do you remember anything new about your abduction?"

Molly looked down at her lap and nodded. "Yes. I remember some. I was walking home, like I told you. I remember... I was coming home from work. Saint Batholomew's. I took the tube to the flat complex I used to live at. It was just another ordinary day... I was fetching my keys from my purse to get into my flat when the man came up behind me."

"Can you describe him in any way?"

Molly nodded. "Yes. I saw him a lot... while I was there." She swallowed. "He was one of... the clients who used me." She thought she was going to be sick.

Lestrade had a disgusted look on his face, though he tried to hide it.

Molly continued, pushing past it. "He's tall. Muscular. Light brown hair. He has a tattoo of a cross on his bicep."

Lestrade nodded. They had a guy matching that description in one of the holding cells.

He cleared his throat after a small moment of pause. "Tell me what you can of your captivity. You can go into as much or as little detail as you like. Say what makes you comfortable, and I'll ask questions to fill in any blanks that need to be answered."

Molly had to steel herself for a few moments. She was thankful for Lestrade's patience in her.

"I remember the first day. I woke up in the room you found me in. A man came in. I was still groggy from the drug the man used to knock me unconscious. He took my arm and injected me with a drug... I don't know what the compounds were, but it caused me to go into heat within an hour, despite already being on suppressants." Molly paused, a shiver going down her spine as she recalled the events that followed her going into heat.

Alphas lined up to break her spirit, making her beg for it even as she was repulsed by each of them.

"I was..." No, she couldn't will it past her lips. Not right now. She swallowed. "They tried their hardest to... 'put me in my place,' as they called it. It didn't really work all that well."

Nor did the beatings or the injections or drugs. Bastards.

Molly swallowed. "I tried to escape that night, even though I was still in heat. It was a stupid idea. I could barely walk, let alone run. They got me before I even got outside." Another swallow, another pause as she forced the more gruesome thoughts back before continuing. "One of them carried me over his shoulder back to that small room you found me in, and a short while later the collar and leash was put on me. It didn't come off until..." She felt her throat constricting painfully. It hurt to breathe.

"Until Sherlock got that damned thing off of you," Lestrade finished for her. His jaw was set in a hard line as she nodded, unable to give a verbal confirmation.

"That's enough for now," he said, abruptly turning off the recorder. They sat in silence for a moment, Lestrade giving her the time she needed to calm down. Wordlessly, he held out a box of tissues. She took a few, and wiped her eyes and blew her nose. A few sniffles followed, but she smiled gratefully.

Lestrade sighed, steeling himself before he spoke. "I just have one more request, if you're up to it."


	11. She's Mine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Lestrade's final request of Molly is made known and an enemy is revealed.

"Absolutely not!" Sherlock all but growled the words as Molly explained what Lestrade had asked of her. She'd already agreed in the office, but his vicious refusal had her flinching away.

Lestrade, standing just behind Molly, scowled. "Not your choice, Sherlock. She's already accepted. She needs -"

"Having her identify the roles of the men that held her captive is hardly a need! I could do the same."

Molly stepped away from both of them. If they had been dogs, both Lestrade and Sherlock would have had their ears tucked back and teeth exposed.

The idle chatter that had been taking place in the main room had gone silent, everyone watching or listening to the two alphas.

Molly's teeth ground together. It wasn't Sherlock's choice, damn it, and their fighting was picking away at her already frayed nerves. She _hated_ having someone else talk for her.

"Back down, or I'll throw you in a bloody holding cell. You are interfering with a criminal investigation, which gives me plenty of ground to hold you for twenty-four hours." It wasn't an idle threat.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "I won't assist with further investigations."

"I won't let you."

"Enough!" Molly's snapped word broke the tension if for no other reason than that _no one_ had been expecting it from her.

Everyone else in the building knew Sherlock and Lestrade. They snapped at each other's throats if they disagreed, but in the end the better choice always won out, no matter which alpha it came from. However, there had never been a wrench thrown in, another person who should have been allowed the final choice.

After seeing her break when she and Sherlock first entered, certainly no one expected this to change.

As it was, Molly was visibly shaking, her limbs stiff to keep herself from bolting. Her hands were clenched into fists, her nails digging into the skin of her palms to anchor herself as both alphas turned their still-hard gazes on her.

With her eyes locked firmly on the ground between them, she continued.

"It's not your bloody choice what I do. I.. I want to do this, if it will help the investigation, and if you're going to try to stop me... I won't let you. So just stop it." Her voice quivered but her words were clear. Clearly directed at Sherlock.

There was a moment where everyone seemed to be holding their breath, frozen, waiting.

All at once, Sherlock's hard gaze crumbled. His expression was mostly blank, but there was a bit of something almost wounded in it. "Of course. I'm sorry, Molly."

She swallowed. "It's fine," came her clipped reply.

Lestrade glanced between the two, clearly a bit thrown off, but willing to shake off his thoughts for the time being. "Right... The usual precautions will be in place. One sided glass. They'll have no clue who's viewing them. Scent and sound blockers as well, all standard procedure." He was speaking mostly for Molly's benefit, since Sherlock knew all of this already.

While he spoke, her shaking drifted to a small tremble, barely noticeable. "Lead the way, please, Lestrade." Her voice was quieter now.

It was as they headed for the car that would take them to the holding facility that Sherlock paused at a water cooler, positioned by the door. Neither Lestrade or Molly paid much head to him, but soon he was beside them again, holding a small cup of water out to Molly. "Your throat sounded rough," he said simply.

She took the cup after a moment of hesitation and offered him a small smile. "Thank you Sherlock."

Lestrade heard the quiet exchange behind him, and gave a small, bemused shake of his head as they got into the cruiser, but didn't comment.

Hell, if she managed to teach him some manners, it would help _everyone._

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

After they arrived at the compound, Lestrade went in ahead, leaving Sherlock and Molly in one of the seeing rooms as he arranged for the prisoners to be moved into the other room for identification.

The whole process took about twenty minutes, during which Sherlock paced at the back of the room, and Molly stared into the room, separated by glass. It was hard to believe that a simple piece of glass could hide her. She swallowed, not nearly as sure as she had been.

 _It's too late to change your mind_ was the thought that crossed her mind as Lestrade rejoined them.

"They'll be coming in one at a time. All you have to do is say as much as you feel comfortable with about each man that you remember. It it becomes too much, we leave. All right?"

They'd already gone through all this in his office, but she appreciated him going over it again. It helped ground her, remind her that she was in some kind of control here.

She nodded. "I'm ready."

Lestrade spoke a clipped "bring the first one in," into a small radio, and the first man came in, shackles on his wrists and ankles, escorted by two armed police men.

Molly recognized him. How could she not? The cross tattoo on his bicep was a give away, even if she hadn't just spoken to Lestrade about him. "He was the man who kidnapped me. He was also a... client and a trainer." She swallowed as the man's gaze came up to the glass, his lips turning upwards in a malevolent smirk. She felt her skin crawl. "He... at the beginning would... come in and do things. Put me in my place." She looked away from the glass, feeling her pulse beat under her skin.

"That's all."

Lestrade called for the next man, after having the other sent away and allowing Molly some time to breathe and decide if she wanted to continue.

Again, she nodded.

The next man was small and unassuming, but his presence made her just as queasy as the first. At least he didn't look up. "He was in charge of administering the pseudo-heat drug. Once a week, he'd come in and inject me with it." She rubbed the inside of her elbows, where the majority of the injections were. She could feel the dimpled, damaged skin where too many needles went into too close of a spot.

"Next."

She didn't recognize this one, and she said as much. Lestrade just nodded and called for the next again.

This went on for over an hour. It would have taken less, but Molly had to stop every few people. Stop and sit down and breathe to remind herself that they didn't know she was there, that she was safe. She recognized several of them, men and women, the one who brought her the meal, the one who seemed to be in charge of everything from her perspective, the bouncers who removed alphas from the room when they were finished, a few clients, and ones that she didn't recognize for any particular job, but whose scent she remembered from the place.

Sherlock had moved to stand beside her, examining each of the men. Though he stayed silent, Molly felt just a bit safer with him there. He seemed ot be memorizing every person who came in that she could identify.

There were a few she didn't know as well, but no one seemed disappointed by her inability to name them.

After, Molly was brought to a small office and allowed to truly relax. It felt like a weight had been taken off. Now that she had seen the men who hurt her behind bars, where they couldn't hurt anyone again, she felt stronger. Just a bit.

Sherlock was hovering behind her seat, his hand gripping the back tightly. His presence was helpful. He felt like her protector. She was almost sad when Lestrade made a 'come here' gesture to him.

Sherlock nodded stiffly, and moved to follow him out of the room sending a glance back to her as the door shut behind him.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

Lestrade led Sherlock a few doors down, to make sure they wouldn't be overheard.

Sherlock stayed quiet, hands shoved stiffly into his pockets, lips pressed tightly together to stop himself from speaking first.

Lestrade, likewise, was reluctant to begin, due to the gravity of everything they'd learned from Molly and the men who had held her captive. Eventually, he sighed, and held out a file he'd had tucked under his arm since he'd rejoined Molly and Sherlock in the quiet room.

Sherlock took it. "Molly's records." He didn't bother looking through it, merely folding the file and tucking it into one of the pockets of his coat.

Lestrade nodded the unnecessary confirmation.

"She got every one of those men right, didn't she?" Lestrade asked, tight lipped.

This time, Sherlock nodded the confirmation. "Including the men you placed in simply to assure that she did indeed know the men. Bit underhanded, don't you think?"

"Standard procedure, Sherlock. You know that."

Sherlock's jaw stiffened minutely. "Are we done here, then? I believe Molly will want to rest, after today."

"I wouldn't let her hear you talking like that. She might snap again," Lestrade said, smirking, even as Sherlock's face went that blank that really didn't hide anything of the agitation he was feeling at the comment.

Sherlock didn't comment, opening the door and leaving ahead of Lestrade, though he followed quickly behind, almost strutting with the knowledge that he'd finally gotten the one up on the consulting detective, even in the most petty of ways.

The smugness fell away when they returned to the office they'd left Molly in to find her breathing heavily, looking at the door with wide eyes, almost seeing through them instead of looking at them.

In an instant, Sherlock was kneeling in front of her. "What is it, Molly?" He spoke urgently, senses hyper-aware of the fear scent coming off of her.

Her eyes, wide with dread. "H-he passed the door. O-one of the men. I don't - he's small... but all the others were scared of him. I remember... they said a name, once or twice I heard it, only when he was around. He also..." she swallowed. "He was one of the main... men who..." She swallowed. Her hands shook

"What was his name, Molly?"

His voice, grounding her, helped her fight past her own labored breathing. "Moriarty."

The name meant little to Sherlock. He'd heard it in whispers for over a year, attached to many of his cases, but he never found the man, the solid man. One look towards Lestrade at the door, and the Detective Inspector was off.

Sherlock stood abruptly, and took hold of Molly's hand to get her up as well. She clung to him tightly, but Sherlock allowed it, wrapping his arm around her as a sudden distinctly possessive wave ran through him.

He refused to over analyze it.

As he hurried her from the room, neither of them noticed the small sticky note as it fluttered to the ground, a message and a warning in just two little words. _  
_

_She's mine._

_\- JMx_


	12. What Lurks Inside

Sherlock's phone kept going off as he and Molly headed back to Baker's Street in a hastily summoned cab. Even during the ride, Molly stayed pressed against him, using him as an anchor for her troubled emotions, and Sherlock's arm stayed draped over her with a grip that was gentle but firm. He wasn't entirely sure that he would have let her leave his side even had she wanted to.

He was on edge now, more than ever, looking out the cab's window at everything they passed, as if the average, dull London scenery would reveal where this new enemy was.

Something in the back of his mind sighed wistfully, something not his own but that he had clearly placed there himself. He made a note of it, then another, that he had to get back into his mind palace soon to discovered what he had released into it when he had opened that damn door. Clearly, whatever it had been was now having its run of his mind, not something he enjoyed the thought of.

The entirety of the cab ride passed in silence, until it came to a stop at the flat. Stiffly, Sherlock shifted to reach for his wallet, and pulled out a note too big for the small fare. "Keep the change," he said as he got out. Molly was close behind, barely losing contact with him for more than a second before Sherlock's arm was back around her shoulders, his grip tighter.

When she shivered slightly, he forced himself to loosen his grip. "Apologies."

It was gruff, but Molly nodded once in reply, accepting it. She didn't like the constricting feeling. It made her feel trapped again. It wasn't his fault though, and she still made no move to get away. She still felt safer beside him than away from him, though why that was she had no idea.

Sherlock led her inside the flat and up the stairs. It was an interesting experience since the stairs were a bit too narrow for the both of them to walk up side by side but somehow, they managed.

As they entered the flat, Sherlock finally detached himself from Molly. A small frown tipped his lips as Molly hugged herself to make up for the loss of contact, and he removed his coat to drape over her shoulders. It swamped her just as it had at the crime scene. She gripped the lapels tentatively and pulled it closer as Sherlock turned away.

Molly claimed the arm chair as Sherlock made himself busy checking the locks of the flat. Usually, he didn't worry about such things, being on the second floor and simply not caring if someone came into his flat or not. Now, though, he meticulously went through every room, checking the windows, the fire escape, and any other entrances or exits, securing them all.

Molly watched as best as she could, though she didn't move from her seat. She could hear him bumping around in the other rooms, a bang here or there of a slammed door signifying that he was done in that room. Each time, she jumped a bit, and each time she pulled the collar of his coat close to her nose, and inhaled the scent. It was almost familiar now. Not like she'd been around it for the short... however long she'd been with him, but for longer than that, even.

She didn't like that she couldn't remember even how long she'd been free. Was she so thrown off of the time that passed? A few blinks as she thought hard, and she realized that she didn't even know what  _month_ it was, and trying to figure it out alone was making her head ache a bit. Looking around, she saw that there wasn't a calendar on the wall either.

Sherlock's cellphone screen lit up on the side table, where he'd set it down quickly before beginning his almost manic check of the flat. She swallowed softly, wondering if he'd mind if she checked the date.

_He'd probably just call me daft..._

Still, she wanted to know. She stood just long enough to snag the phone before sitting back down in the chair. She forced herself to take deep breaths and wait until she made herself comfortable, raising both of her legs up and pulling them against her chest before she finally dared to look at the phone.

The notification had been a message from Lestrade, but she dismissed it without reading it to reach the home screen.

She stared blankly at the date and time that flashed, realizing then that she didn't remember what day she'd even been freed. Plus her illness... It was nice to know what day it was now, but that did little for helping her figure out how much of her life she'd lost.

Molly set the phone aside just as Sherlock came back into the sitting room. Though the manic way at which he'd been moving was gone, the tenseness in his stance was still there, and the frown furrowed his brow more-so than earlier as well.

"I'm going -" He cut himself off when he realized he was yelling the words and a mumbled curse escaped him. He cleared his throat, and restarted in a calm, forced tone. "I'm going into my mind palace. Don't touch me, speak to me, or disturb me in any way until I come out. I have... harsh reactions when I'm bothered, and I don't wish to snap at you again."

Molly nodded slightly, recalling what had happened earlier, how angry he'd been. She didn't particularly want that to happen again either. Ever. And she realized that though he could have worded it less rudely, he was... trying to caution her. She appreciated that.

She watched as Sherlock took a seat in the remaining armchair. He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees and his hands steepled together so that his fingertips barely touched his bottom lip, and his eyes closed.

He seemed almost... peaceful, almost sleeping, if not for the small jerky motions he made. She wanted to know what it was like, having a mind palace. She'd have to ask him about it.

For now, seeing as he was consumed by... whatever it was, Molly simply got more comfortable in her seat, and pulled his coat more firmly around her, reveling in the strange comfort his scent gave her.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

As soon as Sherlock breached his Mind Palace, he recognized the difference. It was... brighter, almost. Not as though a light had been shined on the area, but more like everything was uplifted. The air tasted sweet on his tongue, and a delicious scent filled the area.

He recognized it, but couldn't name it. Almost like the puzzle pieces were blurred in front of him. He could feel them, but he couldn't put them together.

As he walked the main hall of his mind palace, he kept his senses open for whatever had been let free.

The first, most obvious place to look was behind the door, though he doubted that it would have lingered long.

Still, he made his way there, moving past other doors and turn offs until he reached the hall dedicated the his medical knowledge. Next, to the door. But as he entered the room, he came to a halt. The door was missing. He felt at the wall where it had once been, but there was no evidence of there ever having been a door in the first place. Had he deleted it when he opened the door?

It's contents were somewhere, though. He knew it. And that was the cause of the change.

He sped from the room, trying to think.

Back on the main hall, he inhaled sharply as he caught a strong pulse of the scent again.

He looked down towards another side hall. It was one he'd set up early in life, but only visited in emergencies. It had one of his most precious memories tucked away inside.

Sherlock followed the scent trail with mixed feelings.

As he pushed open the door, he was not greeted as he usually was, by Redbeard coming to him. She was busy comforting another. Though her face was tucked away as she crouched against the wall, and her knees pulled up to her chest, Sherlock recognized her easily. She even wore that accursed shirt, stained and raggedy and disgustingly covered with the vile scents of sex and alpha and her blood. It was Molly, as he'd found her.

And beside her, was another woman in a crisp white lab coat, a plaid ruffled shirt, her brown hair up on a ponytail. The scent came from her, slightly sweet, reminiscent of baked bread, coffee, and honey. Completely undiluted. She gently stroked the defiled Molly's hair, comforting her as she whined softly.

"You left her like this, Sherlock," she said, raising her gaze unrelentingly to meet Sherlock's.

It was Molly.

 _No,_ Sherlock corrected himself. It was Molly before her kidnapping. Her figure was fuller, no longer thin and malnourished, and she held herself confidently. She no longer had the edge of fear that Molly always had. Always, her scent was tainted with the smallest hint of fear. Sherlock had never realized until he found them both side by side. He looked between both of them, wondering how he had managed to create two totally different women in his mind palace, and yet they were the same.

"You locked me away."

His eyes were drawn to hers again. Molly stepped away from her fragile self, calming closing the distance between herself and Sherlock. "You never believed I would actually leave you. You should have listened to yourself more."

He deserved the sting of her palm across his cheek. Of course he did, or it never would have happened. After all, she might seem real, but she was created by him in this area, in his mind.

More importantly though, the sting brought remembrance.

He straightened his gaze, and nodded once. "Thank you, Molly. You always were helping me."

"More than you deserved. But you knew that."

He nodded once. "It's my turn now," He said, glancing past her at the other Molly, who still cried. Redbeard looked his way, and whined before turning to nose at her, trying to comfort.

"You'll take care of her?" he asked softly.

Molly half-smiled and nodded. "Until the time is right, yes."

"What does that mean?"

She smirked. "You'll know. You already do, actually. Don't lie to yourself, Sherlock."

Words of caution, or a request, he couldn't quite tell.

She pursed her lips. "Be careful. Don't hurt her anymore."

He frowned, his eyes on the fragile woman again. "I don't intend to. Why -"

Again, a small smile touched her lips as she cut him off. "Time to go, Sherlock. Don't worry, you can do it. Just use that self-control you pride yourself on."

"Wha -"

Everything began to blur away as something intoxicating filled the room.

Intoxicating, but laced with the hot, sour taste of terror.

As Sherlock's eyes opened up to reality once more, they fell upon a trembling, shaking Molly.

Her eyes locked with his, and he read the panic just moments before he realized what the scent was.

It was Molly, her heat, her fear, and as the need rose, Sherlock could only think of one thing, which came out rough, husky, and a warning to her.

"Run."


	13. Stolen Cuffs and Shameful Ruts

Molly watched, almost mesmerized as Sherlock drifted off into his mind palace in front of her. He looked almost peaceful, if not for his random jerking motions. She wondered what it was like, doing what he did. She didn't think  _she'd_ ever be able to do it.

She pulled his coat closer to her as she prepared for the long wait of him returning – for lack of a better word – from his mind.

She let out the smallest giggle, realizing that he took daydreaming to a whole new level.

She buried her nose into the sleeve as she rested her head on her arms, taking a deep breath of his scent. It made her feel warm.

For some reason though, that warmth brought some sort of foreboding to her mind, as if it was a bad thing. The way her stomach began to slowly tighten didn't feel good either.

She took another deep breath of his scent. It quelled her nerves just a bit.

She couldn't get comfortable.

Slowly, hoping not to make enough noise to disturb Sherlock, she began to shift in the chair. The material groaned a bit under her movements, but she just couldn't stop.

And she just felt… too warm. Not quite burning, but definitely uncomfortable. But she didn't want to give up Sherlock's coat.

Her shirt was long enough to cover her thighs, so, with a quick glance over to make sure Sherlock was still completely zoned out, she carefully shucked off her shoes and socks so she could pull off her trousers, which had begun to chafe horrible at the inseam.

She pulled Sherlock's coat closer against her skin, feeling a flush creeping into her cheeks and traveling down to her breasts and stomach.

Having her trousers off helped.

She was able to settle, and with her thighs pressed tightly together she could – for the most part – ignore the tightness in her belly.

For a bit.

Why did she feel so hot? She looked at the thermostat on the wall, seeing it was a nice twenty-three degrees Celsius. There was no reason for her to feel so hot.

She whined low in her throat. She could feel herself trembling.

As she squirmed to press her legs harder together, she began to realize how slick the insides of her thighs felt.

Wait.

Molly paled as she realized.

Hot skin. Twisting stomach. Aching.

Oh God no.

And then Sherlock began to shift, quite suddenly, and Molly watched, eyes wide, as his eyes opened and landed directly on hers, pinning her in place even as her legs shook for her to run at the predatory look in his eyes.

She saw his nostrils flaring as he took in the scent of her heat, the sickly sweet aroma finally registering with her as well.

His voice was a rough velvet that Molly wanted to wrap herself up in.

And then the single word registered.

"Run."

There was a palpable slipping of control in his voice.

Oh God, please no.

Finally, her legs unlocked.

It felt like she was running on jello as she bolted from the chair, heading for the only place she could think, up the stairs to her bedroom.

She heard a curse and something slamming that shook the banister of the staircase.

Molly wasn't sure how she made it up the stairs without being caught. She wasn't sure how she managed to get into her bedroom or lock the door.

She just felt the heat, and suddenly the scent from the coat still on her was so much thicker, engulfing the room so she could practically taste Sherlock's natural musk with every sharp, scared inhale, until she was practically gagging on it.

she ripped the coat from her shoulders, and dived for the trash bin ungracefully, upheaving little more than stomach acid since she hadn't eaten yet. It burned her throat, and her body trembled as another slam resonated from downstairs.

She didn't want to know what was going on downstairs as she clutched herself, trying to ease the ache, feeling disgusted with her own body's reaction, how much she craved to go downstairs, how much the very thought sickened her even as her body cried, begged for it.

All she could feel was groping hands on her body, forcefully pushing her to the ground, grinding against her and pressure as they forced themselves onto her.

Another dry heave into the basket, and Molly was falling, falling away, into agony of her mind and the urges of her body that tore her in two, and her hand drifted down between her legs, shifting aside her knickers to rub frantically, trying to kill the feelings that heat brought to her, if for only a few moments.

... ... ... ... ... ... ... ...

"Run."

Not the most intelligent order Sherlock had ever given, since the moment she stood and began sprinting for the stairs, the overwhelming need to chase had overtaken him. It went back to when omegas would run from dozens of alphas who fought for her as they gave chase until only one remained who would mount and claim the female in front of those of the defeated who were conscious.

Despite his - admittedly minimal - efforts, he stood to give chase as years of instinct and biology bade him to.

It was only a stumbled misstep that stopped him from catching her scarcely two steps up the staircase. He let out a stream of curses as his hip slammed into the banister, sending pain shooting up his side and offering a moment of clarity as his mind registered the injury.

A clarity that Sherlock used to get his bearings, and stop himself from chasing her up the rest of the stairs. He could still catch her, and as the pain faded, he felt himself once more drawn upwards.

Instead, he forced himself back heading to the couch, where he dropped to his knees to retrieve a box stuffed haphazardly under the couch, filled with pilfered cuffs and identification badges of a certain Detective Inspector. He never thought he'd use them, though he did enjoy the frustration he caused the alpha. Now, he was grateful for their presence.

As he picked up one of the sets of cuffs with trembling hands, the last of the pain faded away, and again Molly's scent, of heat, so close, with just some steps and a flimsy door keeping her from him, stood at the forefront of his mind, so much so that he almost forgot the need for cuffs despite the fact that he'd already shackled one of his wrists.

Pain, he registered in the barest part of his mind, kept the rutting instinct at bay with an even greater instinct to mend, so Sherlock did what any logical mind would do.

He slammed his head against the solid wood of the leg of the coffee table beside him.

The ensuing burst of pain did wonders for his mind and as the ache radiated through his skull Sherlock quickly took the time to register his flat, figure out where to secure himself to. Obviously he couldn't just cuff his wrists together. Though it would make things more difficult, it wouldn't keep him away from Molly for more than two hours at most. No, he had to find something...

Kitchen table could be shifted. Couch, armchair, bedpost, all could be shifted.

His eyes fell onto the staircase. Banister. Solid hard wood. Not easily breakable. Bars were secure. It would put him closer to her scent, which was only getting stronger, and damn it all, he could feel his cock hardening at the scent of her.

He clicked the second hand of the cuff around the bottom banister, though he couldn't distinctly remember moving closer to it, and sat on the bottom step as the pain radiating throughout his head faded into the background.

He struggled against the cuff when his mind fogged up with nothing more than lust and need. He struggled until his wrist was red and scraped, and the wooden banister was chipped and splintered but not broken.

And then he smelled it - her arousal increasing, almost as if -  _She was._ Sherlock could hear her pants, smell her juices as she stroked herself to try to ease the ache that only an Alpha could attend to.

He unzipped his trousers and stroked himself without coordination, trying to stop the urge even as he continued to struggle with the cuff. He knew she could smell his own arousal, he heard her panting increase, her whines grow higher as he stroked himself harder, faster, imagining himself sinking into her, pounding until -

He squeezed his knot to mock an omega's cunt taking him in and bit into his own arm to satisfy the urge to mark and claim as he came. He could hear her coming too, as he looked at the copious amount of his cum dripping down his hand, splattered onto the hardwood between his legs and on his trousers as well. Shamefully, his knot continued to swell against his hand as he gripped himself, releasing more cum in intervals which joined the mess already on the floor and himself.

For forty-five minutes, he waited for it to diffuse. His hand was no substitute for the omega upstairs, waiting, whining - God, he could hear her whining, whimpering, begging to be filled by him, all he had to do -

Sherlock let out a sound that was more animal than man, a frustrated, growling roar that he suppressed with another bite on his arm. He could taste copper on his tongue.

Another thirty minutes past and it began again, with his cock swelling as Molly's scent spiked once more, and there was nothing Sherlock could do but ride it out, his arm and the banister taking the brunt of his frustrations as he jacked off with the most seductive scent and sounds trailing down the stairs, just barely out of reach.


End file.
